


say love and death in the same breath (I dare you)

by fyeri



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Attempt at Humor, Care of Magical Creatures, Clueless Stiles Stilinski, Crossover, Dubious Consent, Everyone Is Magic, F/F, F/M, Famous Harry, Feral Behavior, Hurt Derek, M/M, Mates, Mystery, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Omega Scott, Pack Dynamics, Scent Marking, Scott is a Good Friend, Scott-Centric, Slow Build, Teen Wolf Mechanics, Triwizard Tournament
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-06-29 14:51:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 43,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15731658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyeri/pseuds/fyeri
Summary: Older, wiser and infinitely more jaded, the famed Harry Potter returns once again to Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, after twenty-one years. He’s hoping for one last wild adventure that he never got in his seventh year, and as usual, Hogwarts doesn’t disappoint.Lovesick teens, brooding werewolves, life-threatening curses and the Triwizard Tournament are just some of the roadblocks on his secret mission to spend more one-on-one quality Daddy time with his kids. Can you blame him?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's Sterek, I promise!

* * *

_Say love and death_

_In the same breath_

_(I dare you)_

 

Harry James Potter, the Boy Who Lived not once but _twice_ , the one who had defeated the Dark Lord, and now the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was inexplicably but undeniably, bored.

 

By the by, things were well for Harry. For what he’d achieved in his lifetime, he really shouldn’t be one to complain.

Except, he was tired, he felt tired all the time. Well maybe not as much tired as… bored. Just completely bored out of his mind.

It’s been exactly twenty years since the Battle of Hogwarts had taken place.

Ten of those years Harry had spend catching all the Death Eaters who were foolish enough to have willingly or unwillingly sided with Lord Voldemort, before the whole dumping lot in Azkaban. Even more years had passed since any Dark Magic had been practiced on the streets, and a few more since the term ‘Mudblood’ was spoken carelessly.

The Ministry had not been as kind this time round now that they had full knowledge that  _He Who Must Not Be Named_ was well and truly gone from Merlin’s green earth.

This time, in the aftermath of the Second Wizarding War, no one could hide their political affiliations and it became exceedingly clear who was to be rewarded, and who was to be punished.

The _Anti-Dementors Act_ took a bit longer, and definitely did not come into effect before all known Death Eaters had been given the literal kiss of death. Sadly, as Hermione explained to him, the penal code was only passed due to purely perfunctory materialism more than an ethical pursuit of any kind. With the influx of prisoners in Azkaban, the Ministry needed an acceptable method of, in Ron’s words, ‘ _pegging em’ out_ ’. And the kiss was the fastest way available.

The dementors were released back into the wild however, when it became apparent that some of the prisoners deserved a fate worse than death.  
Harry was almost sad to see them go after quickly learning that humans were by far more brutal and more creative in their torture of others.

 

Kingsley, amidst all the pandemonium, was unanimously elected as Minister and then unanimously reinstated again for every term after that.  
It was clear to everyone concerned that the position henceforth would be passed onto whoever had fought on Dumbledore’s side during the war and Harry wouldn’t be surprised that if _he_ had elected himself, the motion would have been carried without a quorum.  
Never mind that he was a school dropout or had no credentials whatsoever. 

Nonetheless, Minister Shacklebolt’s campaign was smooth sailing, especially with the very bloody and not to mention messy deaths of the previous two ministers. Oh there were definitely opposing candidates all right, opportunistic vultures who had been waiting for the ball to drop before swooping in.  
But they could all somehow or another be traced back to the Dark Lord in one way or another.

Harry would never know how Shacklebolt managed to find these connections and even if he did, he wouldn’t tell anyone. Seeing as Harry was the Head Auror at the time and most of the incriminating evidence happened to be from his sources.

Either way, the issue of most urgency now was to soothe the immediate demand for reform. The Wizarding masses had been quiet after the first war, living in fear of the Dark Lord’s wrath. Now that he was gone and children had been murdered in his wake, they were suddenly very interested in politics and made their interest known in very loud and very angry ways.   
That was why the Death Eaters had to be the first to go, having been protected for so long by their pure blood status and landed gentry.

Now that these things held no meaning to anyone and Dementors had been released into their old hiding places, they had nowhere else to go but Azkaban.

 

It was almost too easy after that.

The remaining members of the Order quickly rose to power; Harry and Ron joined the Aurors without even graduating Hogwarts. They were technically dropouts at this point, but no one had even bothered to raise an eyebrow in question. After six years of schooling, Harry had quite enough of studying thankyouverymuch. But without a clue of what to do in the future he had accepted the Ministry’s internship.

He’d been a hot mess back then, trying to pick up whatever pieces of the life he had left.

Anything was better than going back to Hogwarts, being reminded everyday of the blood on his hands, the lives he’d destroyed.

The internship was almost a healthy distraction. This was, of course before he realised that the position was mostly perfunctory.

His first year in office was nothing but mountains upon mountains of paperwork, accumulating on his desk like toy blocks since his first day on the job. He soon learnt that it was the Ministry’s way of an apology and an expression of gratitude rolled into one i.e. _sorry-we-never believed-in-Dumbledore_ as well as  _thank-you-for-saving-us-though-we-were-completely-useless_.

The administrative duties only increased after he had passed the first year ‘probation’. Which made sense, considering the mysterious deaths and disappearances of many a Death Eater.

He had barely got called to the field since then.

There was no one left to carry out the Dark Lord’s deeds, and no one stupid enough to try again.

 

In lieu of recent events, the public had now moved onto very vocal protests of discrimination between purebloods and Muggle-borns. Hermione had swooped in for the kill, rising as an ambassador of public opinion and swearing up and down that she would take it upon herself to tear down the proverbial walls of prejudice. 

Harry had been there that day, standing directly beside her for the entirety of the press conference. It was clear that his presence had made some kind of difference and if Harry was even a little more pessimistic, he would have felt a little like a puppet on strings.

Seven more years had flown by just like that. Other than the occasional state visit and public announcement, he was hardly called upon anymore.

Which was perfectly fine with Harry. It gave him more time, time and energy to build the family he’d always wanted.

To be the father he’d always wanted to be, the father that his own father would have wanted for him to be, but could never be himself. 

 

He remembers the day that he brought home his firstborn like it was just yesterday.

Ginny had been in labour for fourteen straight hours and Harry was beside himself with worry. For those fourteen nail-biting hours, the nightmares he’d repressed his whole life managed to escape through the cracks of his compartmentalised mind, roaming freely up and down the hospital corridor where he sat, head cradled in his hands.

His earliest memories are of the cupboard, where he had never felt lonely or abandoned.

Because those were words for people who felt anything else while growing up.

He thanks Merlin that none of his children will ever truly know them.

Then he thinks of _him_ , or at least the him he’d seen in Dumbledore’s memories. Just as equally lonely and abandoned in that orphanage as he himself had been, locked up in that cupboard.

Perhaps even more so. 

Hours later, and with a fierce resounding cry, his son was born. Unshed tears are in his eyes even before he lays them upon his tired wife and their beautiful new baby. He leans over to see Baby James resting peacefully in her arms, a pink face peeking out from under her breast, bundled together by a mess of cloth and  _—_ _oh, so beautiful_ but it’s only when tiny cotton fingers stretch out and  wraps them in one of his own  _—_ _oh so soft, so soft_ that he breaks down into a full sob.

 _"You will be so loved, you will be so loved, I promise you.”_ He whispered as he held his son for the first time.

The words ‘ _unlike me’_ die in this throat.

 

* * *

 

**1st September 2018**

 

It’s been fourteen more years after that and James is now a mere reflection in the mirror, barely a head shorter than Harry and eager for independence. 

 

Harry knows that his son will be fine walking his own path, if only to set himself apart from his father. James had gone ahead to Hogwarts, determined to avoid the stubborn tears that undoubtedly threatened to run down his father’s cheeks. _Every damn year_.

He stood on the edge of Platform Nine and Three Quarters alongside the rest of his family. He look over to Ginny, who was fussing over Lily before turning his attention back to Albus, who was shuffling his backpack from side to side, looking around nervously as if he was ready to bolt at any moment. Harry watched with concern as his son's inattentiveness when from the corner of his eyes, he sees a girl with chocolate brown locks waving enthusiastically at them from further down the track.

At first Harry thinks it’s for him, and he’s tempted to wave back until he catches the look on his son’s face.

Albus is red from the neck up, even the tips of his ears are glowing pink.

 _Oh,_ he thinks. _Oh._ _It’s finally happening then_.

As much as he knew that this day would come, he’d dreaded it like the plague. 

Back in his youth, Harry hardly had time to entertain such ghastly terms like ' _eye candy'_ or ' _puppy love'_ except for his short-lived crush on Cho which had ended in such epic proportions of tragedy that he had nearly forgotten about it. And after Ron's unfortunate encounter with the love potion, he had solemnly sworn off all adolescent romances.  
He was lucky to have Ginny by his side, and even luckier when she’d agreed to be by his.

Now that his _own_ children were at  _that_ age, all he feels is apprehension. On the day that Lily ever got married, he’s afraid he’ll combust. Either that, or inflate everyone in his immediate vicinity. But ever since way back then, he’d already decided he would support his children in any way he could, and clearly this was no exception. 

 

She was definitely pretty though, even from afar.

Behind the girl stood two adults whom Harry assumed were her parents.

Without hesitation, he ushered his son over to them.

“Dad…” Albus protested but it was too late.

“How do you do?” Harry asked, smiling. He tilted his head slyly to the side, parting his bangs just slightly to flash the faint remnants of an indented lightning bolt seared onto his forehead.

“Are you perhaps..?” the woman starts, “Harry Potter, _the_ Harry Potter?” the male finished.

“The one and only.” His lips curl to reveal pearly white teeth. A round of laughter erupted as Harry knew it would.

The pair hastened to introduce themselves.

“I’m Chris, Chris Argent and this is my daughter Allison, say hello Allison.”

“Hi!” the girl chirps out.

 _She’s even prettier in person_ , Harry though to himself, he hoped his son wasn't be the first in a long line of heartbreaks.

The name Argent is familiar to his ears for some reason, though he can’t quite place it. There’s a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, like he’d forgotten something very important but couldn't quite place. Perhaps it would be wise to run their profiles when he returns to his department, if only to assuage his own paranoia.

Harry frowned but Chris continued, snapping him out of his reverie, “And this is my sister-“

“Kate. Kate Argent.”

She extended her hand and he took it with a firm grip.

“We’ve heard plenty of things about you Mr Potter, and coming from a muggle family, that truly says a lot.” She smiled at him, bright blonde hair a beacon in the swampy masses.

For some reason Harry is suddenly reminded of Aunt Petunia though he can't understand why. Then the moment passes and Chris is smiling at him nervously.

“We’re a muggle family through and through, Allison’s the first to attend Hogwarts, much to our surprise. As a parent, I must say it’s all rather nerve-wrecking.”

“Indeed.” Harry supplied easily, “More so for our children than it is for us, entering a new and completely different world.” He paused, letting the thought sink in,

“Hopefully they’ll find friends along the way, to make the journey a bit more bearable.”

He winked, “Between you and me, its the only way I survived.”

With one smooth motion, he pushed Albus towards the Allison, who remained smiling and friendly. In direct contrast to his son, who was looking more and more like a gargoyle with every passing second; a very immobile and perpetually frowning gargoyle.

“This is Albus, my younger son,” Harry urged again “I’m sure he’ll be more than obliging to accompany Allison on the train ride, won't you Albus?”

It’s not a rhetorical question but Albus remained unresponsive by his side. Just a beat before thing devolved into something truly awkward, Albus spoke, red-faced and gutted, as if even the effort to open his mouth pained him.

“C’mon Allison” he spit out, voice cracking at the effort. Then he was off, stomping way in poorly disguised anger. Allison, bless her heart, had the good sense to smile shyly between the adults before she trailed behind Albus.

“Excuse me.” Harry kept the smile plastered on his face as he caught up to his son, who was helping Allison tuck her luggage into the back of the carriage.

"Thank you Albus, I’ll head in first and look for a seat for us.’ Allison piped curtly before disappearing onto the train. 

Harry had no doubt in his mind that Allison was as smart as she was pretty, the girl had more tact than Hermione and Ron combined. She reminded him strongly of Hermione but without all the snark. If nothing else came from this, it was at least good to know that his son had taste.

“Albus,’ Harry tried again when his son continued to ignore him.

The third time is almost a hiss, a voice he reserves almost exclusively for misbehaviour, “Albus Severus Potter! You’re not leaving this platform until you look at me.”

Reluctantly, his son turned to face him but his eyes remained cast down on the ground. He could hear the wheezing spit of the train, black wheels roaring into life beside them.

“That was rude, even for you. I was just trying to help, you wouldn’t believe how long me and your mother-“

"Dad." His son’s voice barely registered as a whisper.

The locomotive was spewing angry black smoke into their faces earnestly now, wheels churning faster and faster in their urgency.

“Just back off!’

The words were almost drowned out by the shrill whistle, but Harry heard them ringing in his head loud and clear.

As soon as he said it, Albus’ face was immediately struck by remorse. But he had the eye of someone too angry to care. 

A black blur shoved past Harry as Albus chased down the side of the train before hauling himself onto the carriage and disappearing completely out of sight.

He watched with a sinking heart as the train departed from the platform, an angry hissing snake slithering away into the dense coverage of rolling hills ahead.

“Now you’ve done it.”

It's Ginny’s. She’s beside him in an instant, running one hand soothingly up and down his arm while the other was wrapped tightly around Lily. Their baby girl was sound asleep, blissfully unaware of all the drama that had unfolded within the span of a few minutes.

In response, Harry groaned. He knows she's right. 

 

He had done it now.

 

===

 

That night, Harry excused himself from the dinner table and retired to bed early. It's hours later however, and he’s still tossing and turning.

With two of his children gone, the house was eerily quiet.

 

After they got married, Ginny and him had had decided to move to a small apartment in London; where the traffic was terrible and the people were even worse. But it was closer to the Ministry and after living in the Burrow for so long, she had decided that a smaller house was what they wanted and Harry had been wise not to argue.

Now however, Harry stared absently at the ceiling in their tiny bedroom. The place felt entirely too large, too empty and he gets the insane urge to tear off all the flowery wallpaper. He could hear Ron laughing at him in his mind's eye, _Bonkers Harry. You’re completely bonkers!_ And for a moment, Harry thinks he might be.

By now, the lure of being a father should have dulled; the countless diaper changes, the mountain of daily laundry, the soul-sapping realisation that babies woke at ungodly hours in the night only to refuse to be woken at appropriate times of the day, the bone-deep tiredness at the end of a work week that not even magic could soothe away.

But it doesn’t.

It just makes him want to do it all over again. If not for Ginny’s ‘Stop at Three’ policy, Harry would have wanted ten kids and then adopted two more.

When Rose and Albus had left for Hogwarts in their first year, the parents had planned a little getaway of their own, and by getaway he meant a last minute dinner and a desperate scramble to find babysitters for Hugo and Lily.

The restaurant was nice at least, and watching his oldest friends shove each other around in their own unique brand of affection had made Harry feel like himself again.

 

Beside him, Ginny was on her fifth glass of Dom Pérignon, looking younger and more-light hearted than she’d felt for a long while.  
They laughed and they talked and before long 10PM had rolled around. Ten more minutes later, and the maitre d' was throwing them a stink eye from across the room. When the man asked for the last time if they had any last orders, they knew it was time to go. Harry paid and left a huge tip in apology before the entourage stumbled blindly out of the restaurant and into the cold night air.

After he had tucked a still giggling Ginny into bed, smoothed out her hair and placed a lasting kiss on her forehead, he went down to the kitchen and poured himself a whiskey.

He sat alone in the empty living room, wallowing in the silence. Lily was at the Burrow with Hugo and they had to pick her up tomorrow before driving her to get her haircut appointment. After that, pay the bills, send their letters to James and Albus, and there was still some more work from the Ministry sitting precariously on his study table, that had to be cleared over the weekend. He made another mental checklist of all the other things he had to do for the rest of the week before pushing them out of his mind.

It's then that the emptiness hits him like a ton of bricks.

His whole life he’d been different. Even in Hogwarts, he was always isolated in one way or another. As a grownup, it surprises him that he still feels so insecure.

While the rest were happy for their children and even happier that they were finally going to get some well deserved alone time of their own, all Harry wanted to do was to gather the three of them in his arms again and never let go. They were gone for barely half a day and he missed them terribly, he wanted them to come back home this instant, back to the home where they belonged.

He can feel the truth surfacing, the ugly thing usually settled low in his stomach but now it was bubbling up his throat, pushing desperately between his lips. They were truths he didn't want to admit unless under pain of death. He tried hard to repress them but like cockroaches they crawled all over the blank space of his mind and chipped away at his sanity, reminded him of the despair, the guilt and the loss.

When they were born, for the very first time in his life, Harry knew he belonged.

He knew instinctively, what they’d wanted and what they’d needed and despite the endless arguments and sibling rivalries, found a compromise to keep them content. They were an extension of his body, they knew him just as much as he knew them. Nurturing them into maturity was the highlight of his fatherhood, watching them fall and stumble only to help them back up again, exemplifying his core values as they followed in his footsteps, it felt like a crooked screw was finally twisting into place.

Compared to the neglect in his childhood, Harry knew he did not deserve them and could never give them enough of what they deserved, no matter how much he tried.

Because he wasn’t like the rest of them, was he? Unlike Ron or Hermione or even Ginny, Harry was broken in a way that could never be fixed. It didn’t matter that they were ridiculously rich and he would spoil them on many occasions. It didn’t matter that the Potter fame would mean that they will never fall short on friends. It didn’t even matter if they attended Hogwarts or not, since he could supply them with jobs in the Ministry when they got older.

It’s selfish and it's unhealthy, but Harry doesn’t care. He had won the war indefinitely, Voldemort was dead and the streets were safe from Death Eaters, no one had any reason to be afraid anymore.

But see, Harry couldn't help but think that fear had a funny way of worming its way in. Slowly, steadily and then all once, the war had made him hard. He never let’s it show at home but he knows evil has taken root in his heart and everyday is a struggle to keep it at bay.

Working as an Auror had only served to enhance these fears. Everyday he’s faced with real life examples of human corruption; politicians pulling in favours, financiers turning a blind eye to budget cuts, and Harry himself, working day in and day out at solutions that only seem to cause more problems.

He sighed heavily and took another swig of his whiskey, the clinking of ice the only audible sound in the room.

 

It’s two years later now and the heavy darkness has only doubled in volume.

Without his children beside him, he felt torn, once again misplaced in the grand scheme of things. He had a feeling that Ginny knew this. If the worried glances and constant touches of reassurance were any indication. He appreciates her love in a way that only married couples do, but it’s not enough.

And he fears that it will never be.

Very soon, the Hogwarts Express will carry the last of his children into a world of adolescence; full of magic, and friends and wild adventures and, Merlin forbid, _Boys_. 

His little baby girl having a… a… he can’t even say it, the word is too vile and disgusting. Yet Harry could never hope to compete with _that,_ and the thought causes a chill to run straight through his bones.

 _Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself Harry, don't you remember?_ An ancient voice echoed in his mind and he misses it, misses _him_  and his infinite wisdom, needing him now more than ever in this hour of weakness.

 

His job at the Ministry was a scam, his children were slowly but surely leaving him behind and there was nothing Ginny could do to ease the loneliness.

He vaguely wondered if this was what a mid-life crisis felt like. He deliberated, but then dismissed the thought.

Of all the crises he’s endured, this was but a bump in the road called life. He tried not to blame his stunted youth for everything, but it’s hard not to when such a large part of it had been eaten away by vigilante justice to overthrow an undefeatable foe of darkness, especially now that he was a disposable entry level employee at the very organization he’d sworn should never have existed.

 

Suffice to say, he was bored.

 

Not just bored, the word barely covered the bases. He wasn’t just bored, he was jaded. Bloody jaded.

He groaned into the pillow in protest. The memory of Albus and his face contorted in anger assaulted the darkness and Harry let in a shaky breath. 

Ginny walked into their bedroom mere minutes after his epiphany, having finally soothed Lily back to sleep. She picked up a book from the nightstand on her side of the bed and tossed it at his face. He looked at the title curiously, sitting up and lifting a questioning eyebrow at her.

‘ _Raising Happy Children For DUMMIES_ ’ read the obnoxious yellow title.

She rolled her eyes at him playfully and said, ’Chapter 6 Harry’. 

He flipped deftly to the index page and thumbed down the list slowly, not liking where this was going. With a wave of his hands, the book opened at the appropriate page and he stared blankly at the heading.

‘Break Free of the Overparenting Trap!’ read the large bold font at the top of the page, then on the next line ‘ _(Or Risk Their Social-Emotional Wellbeing)_ ’.

Harry groaned quietly. 

Ginny put her arms over his fondly but her voice was firm.

“You have to fix it.”

Harry groaned again, a little louder this time. Okay, a lot louder. 

He groaned one last time for good measure because as usual, she was right.

 

He had to fix it.

  

* * *

 

**22nd April 2019**

 

So by fixing it, Harry mused, he needed to tackle the problem head on.

He mostly blames the Gryffindor side of things for the following series of events. Because when all things are said and done, bravery is synonymous to recklessness and though its saved his hiney on more than one occasion, it had also landed him in more trouble than he could afford.

 

Which is how he found himself face to face with Professor Mcgonagall or should he say, Headmistress Mcgonagall on a crisp and lovely April afternoon. 

Age had been kind to her, Harry observed absently, he wouldn’t be at all surprised if Mcgonagall was in fact, immortal. The woman didn’t look a day older since he was here, he tells her so.

“Dispense with the niceties Potter, and tell me why you’re really here.” she instructed, eyes narrowing in suspicion. 

So the idea of buttering her up was immediately thrown out the window, Harry thought wryly. Her personality hadn’t changed a bit either, just as strict as ever. Maybe even more so.

 

“Are you honestly telling me you wish to work here? _You_ , of all people?”

He wet his lips in hesitation, he’d practiced this speech a thousand times with Hermione but that still doesn't stop the hammering in his chest.

“In the aftermath of the second war...” he started out carefully. Mcgonagall was still watching him in that creepy cat-like way of hers and he schooled his face into one of blank partiality, forcing his voice to remain calm before continuing.

“The Ministry of Magic has instated several defensive measures in order to avoid unfortunate reoccurrences of past misgivings. It is imperative that the focal point now be shifted to mitigate tensions and prejudices of pure bloods and Muggle-borns.”

“To do so, new integration strategies must override current levels of assimilation.” He laced his fingers, trying his best to remember Hermione’s script, “One of the measures approved by the Ministry is to inculcate a sense of togetherness amongst our youth. To nurture a love for diversity and tolerance, if you will.” 

He swallowed, “I would like to formerly congratulate Hogwarts in this endeavour. A true honour it is to be one of the first for this broad-based transformative policy experiment.”

He prattled on, “It has also been brought to our attention that some Hogwarts students face in-house and level wide bullying in lieu of tensions between blood statuses, which has long been an issue of concern in this school. Deputy Minister Ms Hermione Granger has expressed extreme concern with regards to this matter, and hopes to pitch this policy as her campaigning platform next year."

"Therefore this Four-Strand Integration Policy Plan,” he pointed to the thick stack of papers on the desk, “hopes to promote inter-house harmony in the long term. Successful implementation will require quality indicators and regular feedback to the Ministry. My position here is merely to oversee these proceeding, and assist you in any way I can.”

Mcgonagall eyed him warily before springing for a retort, to which Harry ignored.

“Need I remain you Headmistress Mcgonagall, that one of the people who had aided in this road to serfdom was a former student here in Hogwarts.” he continued idly.

 

It’s Seamus who speaks next, having been silent behind him all this time, “A less than innocent boy who was forced to make some very difficult decisions. Ones that would have ultimately led to the destruction of the entire Wizarding world if the Dark Lord had his way.”

“A boy who remains unpunished thanks to the statute of limitations, and walked away a free man.” Dean finished. He’s perched at the door of the office, no doubt recasting the Imperturbable charm.

“If someone, anyone, had not been so afraid of speaking up against him and his family, maybe more children could have been saved that day, Professor. This is ultimately why Hogwarts has need of an overseer, a guidance counsellor if you will. And it is precisely for this reason that I am here before you.” Harry finished.

He swallowed thickly, he hated using this argument but by far its been the most effective.

Harry chanced a look at the headmistress from his position behind a pillar.

Minerva stared at nothing, the colour of her face had faded into a new shade of pale.

Harry bit his lip to stop the apology from tumbling out, he was so close, he could _feel_ it. 

 

He stood up abruptly and swept across the room. He had learnt, very early on, that the action was a form of passive aggression in the adult world. He had seen Kingsley use it on numerous occasions when council members felt the need to debauch every pro-muggle incentive that was suggested to the legislation. 

If Harry’s learnt one thing over the years, was that the Ministry hated change; hated it so much that it would rather be destroyed by the laws it governed, than to destroy the laws themselves. He knows that she knows this as well as he does, and he also knows how to use it exactly to his advantage.

“We’ve made many changes Minerva, you may not believe it, I sometimes don’t either, but change is coming. With Hermione campaigning for the Minster’s seat, it's just a matter of time before she’ll be able to make things better, permanently. You know this as well as I do.”

“But change can’t only happen in the Ministry, we both know how easily they crumble when real danger is afoot.” He turned to face her, “We’ve got to start with our young, remove the prejudice indoctrinated by their families, nurture and expose them to diversity in a safe and conducive environment.”

“Do not let hatred taunt their minds, twist their perceptions. Do not let fear build higher than these castle walls could ever hope to protect them.” He warned. 

 

He tried to inject some truth in his words but these things always seemed to be blatant lies. Hogwarts had granted him reprise from the world yes, but it had never protected him from danger.

It's only in the arms of his children that he had ever felt safe and secure, but of course he doesn’t mention this.

“I’m afraid the Ministry has already made its decision. My being here is a mere courtesy call to you, on account of my respect Professor. Nonetheless, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is here under strict orders from the Ministry, we will require your insignia and signature on these documents. When the new business has been concluded, motion will be carried forward. Acting-Minister Mr Shacklebolt and Deputy Head Ms. Granger will require your presence by noon tomorrow, along with these progress reports.”

Mcgonagall stood abruptly and Harry blinked slowly to calm himself.

Everyone knew that _he_ was the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and she was smart enough to know that this entire scheme was basically one of his _I’m-up-to-no-good-but-you-can’t-stop-me_ hijinks.  Which Harry really can’t deny, since the ulterior motive was to spend more time with his children.

You can’t blame a father for trying though, Daddy knows best after all.

 

For a moment he thinks Mcgonagall was for sure gonna call him out on his bullshit, she’d done it before and she’ll probably do it again. The hairs at the back of his neck prick involuntarily and…

Mcgonagall just stared at him like he’d grown horns on his head and sprouted flowers from his nostrils. She took off her reading glasses and let out an audible sigh.

 

Harry can see the definitive signs of age now that he looked closely. The soft tufts of grey hair behind her ears, the low arch of her back, the slight tremble when she flexed her fingers.

 

“Motion has been seconded. Curriculum changes will be taken into account effective immediately.” she said after much deliberation.

He nodded stiffly, thanking her before leaving the office with Seamus and Dean in tow.

As soon as he stepped out the door, he’s smiling. Well, not much as smiling as grinning, a full shit-eating grin as he clamoured up the steps and shot out of the corridor. 

Perhaps it's the nostalgia of being back here in school, but his mind flashed back to the day of the Sorting Ceremony where he’d met Professor Mcgonagall for the very first time.

Everyone was always so surprised when he said he’d almost been put in Slytherin.

 

He doesn’t understand why though.

 

* * *

  

**2nd November 2019**

 

There’s a Hufflepuff boy waiting for him at the top of the stairs as he approached.

“Woah dude, you’re even cooler in person. Stiles is so gonna flip!”

 

The boy grinned up at him, asymmetrical jawline making his smile look even more lopsided, “Name’s Scott by the way, Scott McCall! Year Four Hufflepuff at your service. It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Potter!”

He held out a tan hand which Harry shook firmly. He could actually feel the warmth radiating off the boy. Harry couldn't help but think that there was something oddly comforting and familiar about him. The boy's smile was both disarming and unguarded at the same time, it made him want to trust this boy. He’s vaguely reminded of Sirius, though he can’t draw a definitive similarity between them.

“I’ll be bringing you to your office Mr Potter, its up in the north wing. Headmistress Mcgonagall arranged for an office nearer the staffroom but considering the timing…" he shrugged nonchalantly, grin still firmly in place as he bobbed up the stairs, brown curls lolling from side to side as they made their way past the dining hall.

“That’s quite alright. It’s nice to meet you too Scott.” Harry replied. 

The boy practically beamed at him and in the cold fall air of the palace, the warmth of his smile was like being hugged by a thousand suns.

“You’re gonna love being here, I mean being back here. Can’t wait till the rest of the school hears about this, I mean like seriously dude, this is the coolest thing that’s ever happened since the Triwizard tournament was announced.” Scott said, eyebrows furrowing slightly.

He followed Scott along and tried not to drown in all the nostalgia.

For the first time, he regretted not attending his Seventh Year with Hermione when he had the chance.

 

But perhaps it was for the best, it would’ve been truly selfish to hole himself up in Hogwarts while the presence of Death Eaters was still very much a reality. He wondered if Dumbledore ever felt this way, old and jaded by the world; so empty, and calculating and all-knowing in his own righteousness, so immersed in the Light that any sacrifice was worth the pain of winning.  

He knows now, as he knew then, that this cold logic was necessary to defeat Lord Voldemort and all his fiery hatred at a world that had treated him so unfairly. For all his manipulation and outright deception, Harry had no doubt Dumbledore never quite knew how to love, and as much as he looked up to the wizard as a father-figure, or the closest thing he had to a father figure, he could understand why the man never allowed people into his life.

That would be too much of a weakness.

 

Which is why Harry is determined to do the exact opposite of what Dumbledore had done.

Rather than observe from afar, he was going to take the initiative in wrestling his way into their lives; rather than giving cryptic messages that didn’t mean diddly squat, he was going to be upfront and honest about wanting to spend more time with them. Rather than allowing underage children to go gallivanting around in the Forbidden Forest at wee hours of the night, his kids would have the protected school life that he’s never had. Harry will make sure of it.

Or die trying.

He’s got a whole speech prepared to explain everything when he meets them, then they’ll be touched by his grand gesture and beg him to stay with them forever. It was going to be beautiful. 

For now however, he was content to follow the boy… what was it, _Scott_ , to his lodgings.

 

The rest of the walk is peaceful. The meeting with Mcgonagall had taken a bulk of the afternoon which was then followed by contact time with the other professors. There were some familiar faces, Slughorn, Flitwick, Binns (Harry groaned inwardly at the ghostly figure) were all there to greet him with a warm welcome. But Harry was happiest to see Neville, quietly sipping a cup of tea by the windowsill.

“Hey Harry” he had said, face splitting into a buck-toothed grin as if it hadn’t been five years since they'd last seen each other at the reunion.

It felt like no time had passed at all.

“Hey Neville” he replied easily, leaning forward to slap a solid pat on his back. 

Harry turned to the rest of the staffroom curiously, there were plenty more faces he couldn't recognise, but was sure he would soon have the pleasure of doing so.

By the time he had exited the staffroom, it was already well after curfew. Students had gone back to their common rooms and the hallways were empty and peacefully quiet. 

Nothing much had changed about Hogwarts, at least structurally speaking. After the event of the Second Wizarding War, everyone had helped to restore the castle to its former glory. Protection spells, runes and charms triply reinforced and whatever else that had been destroyed was mended with a large-scale Reparo spell. Still there were some parts that would be lost forever, like the Room of Requirement which had been burnt to a crisp, as well as the Chamber of Secrets which had caved in, there were others too but… well, perhaps they were all better off without it.

 

“Well this it Mr Potter!” Scott all but shouted as the door to his office was swung open.

It was a room that Harry had been in before once or twice, but had completely forgotten about. The outlay of the office was mostly the same though. There was a large oak desk to the right of the room, marred by an empty shelf. A large chest sat near the entrance, and it looked like it had been recently emptied. Hanging from the ceiling were long banners of red and gold tapestry, crisscrossing the room like waves in the Red Sea. Several paintings lined the back of the room and behind it, Harry could see a flight of stairs going up to where he assumed would be his living quarters for the rest of the year.

“Sorry it’s a little sparse, Stiles and I were really excited to have you up here so we may have umm... cleaned the place up a little bit? You know spruced things up, I mean considering how cluttered it was. Hope that's not weird... is it?” Scott asked, smiling shyly in hesitation.

“Not at all, in fact I have to thank you for your help.” Harry replied truthfully. He was curious as to what was this styles creature that Scott kept mentioning, _maybe a new type of pet?_ but decided that asking would be rude and he didn’t want to offend the boy on their first meeting. Also, he was staring at Harry with tiny stars in his eyes where the iris should have been.

“I know right! It was Stiles' idea though, he always comes up with the neatest ideas! He’s amazing at wandless magic too, you should really meet him ASAP.” his lips made a loud pop at the last syllable.

“Definitely.” Harry nodded sagely, before releasing a perfectly timed yawn, “Perhaps tomorrow.”

Scott didn’t take the hint however, “Definitely Mr Potter, I know he’ll be really pleased to see you! Well I’ll let you get to it then, I’m sure it’s been a long day. Or maybe you’ll like some help unpacking?” Scott stooped at the door, staring at him hopefully.

Harry quickly took this as a cue to fake another yawn, “Goodnight Scott.”

“Be sure to let me know if you need anything else!” Scott’s voice was a booming echo in the silence of the room.

“I will Scott, and I’ll be sure to meet this... _styles_ of yours very soon. Have a pleasant evening.” he all but shoved Scott out the door and slammed it in the boy’s face, trying his best not to think about how long the poor sod was just going to stand there.

It felt vaguely like he’d just kicked a puppy and felt almost guilty. He wonders if he had ever hero-worshipped Dumbledore in the same way.

 _Definitely not_.

But the thought makes him cringe inwardly anyway.

 

===

  

He gets an owl from Ginny the very next morning, he unrolled the piece of paper carefully. There was only a single sentence written neatly on it.

 _Darling Harry_ , it wrote,

_This is not I meant when I said to fix it._

_With all my love_

_Ginny_

He grimaced, she always knew exactly what to say to make him feel like he’d won the worst husband of the year award. 

 

When finalisations for his new transfer had taken place, he’d been too busy with packing to announce his departure, or at least that’s what Harry told himself. He had left Ron to be the bearer of bad news, along with empty promises of his impending return. He winced internally.

Ginny would be more than happy without him, Harry reasoned to his traitorous heart. She hadn’t said anything of the sort of course, but he’d seen the way she had stopped outside muggle travel agencies, picking up pamphlets on couple yoga gym sessions, pointing out 2-For-1 deals on painting workshops etc.

But her plans kept getting held back because Harry simply didn’t have the time, nor the interest for such leisurely activities.  

His mind drifted back to the conversation he’d had with Albus when he’d told his children the good news.

 

_“Dad” His son stood aghast, “I tell you to back off, and you decide to work here, here in Hogwarts? Why don’t you just stuff me down a chimney Da? Or better yet, tie a ruddy rope around me neck and be done with it?"_

_“Language, Albus.” he’d hardly had time to bellow out before Albus was storming way._

_“Only the lowest of the bloody low go on the way you do Da, hope you’re happy with yourself!” he’d turned and shouted from across the hall._

 

He sighed, making his way down to the empty office room. Even Lily had given him a wide berth since his arrival. 

Only James had greeted him with a warm hug, though his eldest son had been apologetic about not visiting sooner, especially since he wouldn’t be able to spend as much time with his father as he wanted to, considering that this was the year of his O.W.L.s, and he was planning to finish his N.E.W.T.s in his Seventh Year.

Albus had reacted the worst, openly throwing him dirty looks from across the foyer, turning tail whenever he rounded the corridor and mouthing the words _'I hate you'_  whenever they were forced to be in the same room.  

Tumbling back into the armchair in his office, he sighed in defeat. _Sticks and stones_ , he reminded himself, _sticks and stones_.

 

This was not at all how he had planned it to go. They were supposed to spend more time together, they were suppose to be _glad_ he was here. He just wanted to watch over them, spend some of the best years of their life alongside them. Maybe even give advice and guidance should they require it. And maybe, just _maybe_ , Harry would have an answer for his loneliness, maybe even find a part of himself that he'd been missing, some way to quell the emptiness and replace the crater-shaped hole that his children had left in his heart.

Harry changed into his robes, banishing the distress to the back of his mind but the the bitter thought pervaded, sinking its roots insistently. 

He’d just arrived and everything was already going awry. _Maybe Albus was right_ , he thought sadly, _maybe I shouldn’t be here at all._

Not to mention, things were still bad with the headmistress as well.

Mcgonagall was in frequent contact with the Ministry, often away from her office for weeks at a time. He had no doubt that she was against his being here, trying vehemently to send him back even though he’d already been here for two months. But with Hermione at his side and Ron left in charge of his department, there was very little wriggle room for argument; even Mcgonagall would have trouble facing all three of them down.   
Surprisingly, the whole idea hadn't been his in the first place, it had been Hermione’s. He had been sincere with his sales pitch but most of the arguments were instigated by her and when she had drawn up the contract for a joint partnership proposal between his department and S.P.E.W, everyone else had gladly leapt onboard. 

However in lieu of his transfer and Hermione’s successful run in office, he had completely forgotten that Hogwarts was once again the host of the Triwizard Cup this year.

=

 

_“The first time in a long while that Hogwarts gets to host the cup and now this!” Mcgongall hissed, shaking her hands in anger, “A Fourth Year has once again been selected by the Goblet, and once again he swears he didn’t put his name in!"_

_"Just one month after that, you arrive.” She stuck out a bony finger to point at him accusingly, the effort causing her whole body to tremble._ _“Coincidences? Don’t make me laugh Potter, or are you only too happy to watch history repeat itself?”_

_The words stung but he deflected them easily, “If there's any real trouble, I do believe my being here would be of service ma’am.”_

_“Help? Help, you say? For six years Mr Potter you were a miasmic magnet of mischief! The boy’s life is already in danger and the only help you’ll offer is to hold his hand as he jumps off the plank!” her voice boomed._

_Beside him Hermione clipped, “Please calm down Headmistress Mcgonagall.”_

_She continued “There were extenuating circumstances in Harry’s case, as you well know, one that was completely beyond his control and one that will not reappear again.”_

_"Your heavy-handed accusations are hardly fair, and I do not take kindly to insults made against my staff.”_ _Despite having been in fear of the old lady for a large part of her life, Hermione’s tone is severe._

_Harry felt he should be slightly insulted at being called her staff, but wisely kept his mouth shut._

_“Why Miss Granger! Would you care to explain this situation then?" The old lady wrung her hands in exasperation, "Why now after twenty-five years, are these wretched events happening again?"_

_“I would certainly like to tell you that Headmistress, however it’s not within my jurisdiction to do so right now and I don’t get paid overtime.” she waved her hand dismissively._

_“Regardless, I can assure you that extra precautions have been taken, the Ministry has reviewed and re-reviewed the rules and safety guidelines for this year’s event. As you well know, the nature of this competition is meant to test the very best of students. Alas, a sliver of danger is but a necessary ingredient for the tasks, and I’m afraid there’s very little I, nor the council, can do for you or that Fourth Year Hufflepuff. All participants are aware of these risks before entering, and no favouritism must be shown.”_

_She added chastely, “Diggory was hardly the first casualty, and no one except Lord Voldemort can be blamed for the series of events leading up to his death.”_

_Harry did his best not to flinch, the remorse welling up like quicksand in his throat._

_Ron who’s standing opposite Hermione, added on “And you’ve got us Aurors stationed here for the remaining span of the tournament Professor! Not to mention the Department Head himself.” Ron grinned in his direction, “If there’s any foul play, Harry will be the first on it, won’t you Harry?”_

_Harry smiled back, the husband and wife duo could very well be the wizarding equivalent of good cop bad cop._

_“Thats not something I can guarantee Ron” Harry replied truthfully, “but I will promise that I’ll do my utmost to protect the students.”_

_Mcgongall sighed, folding her hands carefully and propping her chin to stare into his eyes,_ _“Thats what I’m afraid of Mr Potter.”_

 

_“Who’s going to protect you?”_

 

===

 

He skimmed through the list of students in his hands.

Mcgongall had immediately put him to work since they returned from their little rendezvous at the Ministry. He was supposed to meet ‘troublemakers’, those who were repeat visitors for detention. He flipped through their profiles, suppressing a smirk. Some of the stunts these kids pulled would’ve put even Fred and George to shame.  
Included in his binder were also some of the students who were reported with behavioural issues, poor medical history or had complicated family backgrounds. 

He frowned when he sees a familiar name down the roster:  

 

> _Allison Argent.  
>  _ _Fourth Year Slytherin  
>  _ _Potential candidacy for prefect_
> 
> _Allison Argent displays great promise in her studies. She gets along well with her classmates both in her own house as well as the others. The Argent family however, has expressed repeated concern regarding her education here, particularly towards her safety in Hogwarts. Family visitations have proven unsuccessful in dissuading her guardians thus far._ _Appropriate action required.  
>  _

Harry flipped the page hoping to find more information but it was blank save for her results slip, followed by a list of her many achievements in the school. He frowned harder, having completely forgotten about the girl he had met at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters last year.

He gets the same nagging feeling that he was missing something, but once again couldn’t place it.

They weren’t part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and Allison’s father, _What was his name? Chris?_  had mentioned that they were muggles but still, Argent was a fairly uncommon family name and Harry wonders where he’d heard it before.

 

He’s deep in his musings when fierce shouts outside his office snapped him back to reality.

 

 _“First you kick him out of the pack and now this? Who are you to be giving out orders Hale?_ " The voice is light but shrill in anger.

_"Do you know how hard it was for him? How much of it he had to go through alone? What about me Der? Do you know how much I've sacrificed to keep us all alive? While you were busy stuffing your tail up your arse, I've had to stop him from clawing himself to death every single time!”_

A gruff sound responded, baritone and grainy as if unused to speaking so loudly, _“_ _I did it to protect him, you fool. You know nothin' bout us, so just bugger off Stilinkski! Go snog your little boyfriend for all I care!”_

 _“Stop running your mouth as if you know me! Or I’ll… I’ll…”_ the lighter voice threatens, fury cutting off his words.

 _“You’ll what? Actually do something about it?”_ came the haughty reply.

 

Harry knows, with enough of his own experience, what will transpire next; so with wand in hand, he flocks out the door.

_“Stupe—“_

_“Expalliarmus!”_

The spell shot out from his lips too fast for his wand to catch up but it hit dead center on its target and the smaller boy’s crooked black wand flew out of his grasp.

He turned to face them, eyeing them up and down.

 

“You boys have some explaining to do.”

 

On closer inspection, the boy with the wand was tall and lanky, with a head of short buzzed hair and a splatter of moles covering his whole face, one that was currently staring back at him in horror. Beside him was a slightly taller boy with a well-built frame and dark hair.

It was like looking at two very odd opposites.

“It wasn’t my— his fault!” They both shouted at the same time.

“It's my fault… sir. I should have known better.” The older boy hastened to proclaim, it’s only now that Harry notices the red and gold tie around his neck tucked neatly into his sweater vest. _Figures.  
_

“Yup, he did! He totally did! It’s all his fault sir! I mean I was the one who almost cast the spell there... but it was clear that I was provoked! So really, it's all his fault! His, not mine!” The other boy shouted, hands waving madly.

This earned him a glare from the bigger boy but who otherwise remained silent.

Harry had heard this argument many,  _many_ times before. Some of the times it's from his own lips but most of the time it’s from James, or Albus. 

He sighed, missing them greatly. 

 

Looking down at the two boys in front of him, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. On one hand they were clearly breaking school rules, but on the other he wasn’t a teacher and so wasn’t allowed take away house points or give detentions willy nilly. Also, the two boys clearly weren’t really going to hurt each other and he had stepped in before any real damage was done.

And most importantly, he didn’t give a farthing about rules.

“Fine. Just keep your quarrels to yourself from now on, understand?” He smoothed a hand against his greying hair, feeling the steady thrum of an oncoming migraine.

“You’re… you’re _him._ ” The younger boy muttered, gulping in amazement.

 

On any other day, Harry would be uncomfortable at such an overt display of affection for his status however today he misses his children like an abstained alcoholic misses Jack. Especially the way they used to hero worship _him_ when they were younger before they all grew up and decided to gallivant off into the sunset, as far away from him as they physically could.

So instead he swallowed a grin and nodded seriously, “I _am_.”

“You _are_.” The lighter voice gasped again, “We were so busy fighting, I’d forgotten where we’d end up!”

“Derek. Look, it’s _him._ ” the smaller boy repeated again, much to his amusement.

The older boy, Derek, just rolled his eyes and extended a hand towards him, “It's good to finally meet you Mr Potter.” 

Harry shook it without hesitation.

“It really is him.” The other boy repeated yet again, squealing as he did so, then clearing his throat noisily before launching into a rapid rant, “I mean, its so nice to meet you Mr Harry, I mean Mr Harry Potter, I mean Mr Potter!” he continued, blotchy red patches marring his freckled face, “I’m a big fan. Like _huge_ , I’ve read all your books, I have all your chocolate frog cards. I have posters of you in my dorm room. I can’t even believe you’re real, like you’re really real here and you’re standing in front of me, breathing the same air as me, _talking,"_  He pointed a finger at himself in awe,"To _me.”  
_

He squeaked again, “It’s such an honour to have you here with us.”

He turned to the boy beside him, elbowing him in the ribs “It's just brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! Isn’t it, Derek?”

“It is indeed.” Derek replied amicably. “But we really should be going now, dinner is about to start.” Derek elbowed the other boy back to which he was quickly slapped away.

“Who cares about dinner? It’s Harry friggin Potter and I’m staying here to talk to him! You can go if you want to, but I’m not moving from this spot even if a troll falls from the sky and—“

“ _Dinner._ ” Derek gritted out, “Is _important_. Unless _someone_ would like to have dog chow for the evening... Again.”

At this, the other boy visibly paled, “Yes certainly, we must go. To dinner. Yes, dinner it is! Dog chow is good and all, but it tastes too much like me Da’s meatloaf to be anybody’s first choice.” He shrugged before turning to Harry shyly, “But we can come back right? Just to talk? I mean if we want, or if you wanted us to. Because I really _really_ want to. Talk to you that is.”

Harry considered the two boys before him.

The sudden change in atmosphere was oddly titillating, one could hardly tell that the two boys were at each other’s throat just a few minutes earlier. Harry himself couldn’t tell whether they were friends or enemies.

One thing was for sure though, there was something dodgy going on between them.

 

“Without a doubt.” He finally answered. “It’s been a pleasure to meet the both of you. Now hurry along, before Filch catches you.”

The boy beamed at him and he’s instantly reminded of the Hufflepuff he’d seen on his first day.

“Thank you!” he shouted down the hallway, a skip in his step as he tumbled along. The other older boy had already ran far ahead.

With one last excited _‘WHOOP!’_ they disappeared down the corridor, out of sight and out of mind.

He shook his head and retreated back to his office.

 

Today was a weird day.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing in the future always gives me the heebie jibbies *shudder

* * *

  _Calm me with your yellow eyes,_

_O' sweet demon child of mine._

**27 November 2019**

 

It’s the first day of the Triwizard tournament and even from inside the champion’s tent he could hear the deafening roar of the spectators. The noise reached a crescendo as Derek Hale, Gryffindor’s very own Golden Boy exited the tent. He was to be the first contender in the arena. Erica, Boyd and Isaac were waiting just outside, giving him reassuring pats as he passed through the crowd.

Scott held his breath and tried not to feel sick.

In times like this it was hard to remember he couldn’t get asthma attacks anymore, but the pressure was building inside his lungs all the same. He willed himself to calm down, trying to regulate his heartbeat, holding onto the comforting smells of Allison and Stiles locked away in his memory.

There’s a terse moment of silence before the crowd erupted in clamours once again. Scott’s eyes sharpened yellow in recognition of Derek’s scent, a scent of victory.

The second contestant was from Beauxbatons, Jennifer Blake, if he remembered correctly. She quickly made her way outside, long brown curls bobbing up and down as she glided out of the tent.

Scott ran a sweaty palm up and down his pants leg, this was going to take awhile.

By the time the third contestant had been whisked away, he's in a decided state of frenzy, pacing the carpeted floor up and down.

It was his turn soon and he had no idea what he was going to face. Allison and Stiles had tried their best to find out what they could but unlike the other participants, he didn't have a mentor to watch his back. Mcgonagall had made it strikingly clear that he should have been ousted from the beginning and the rest of the school had promptly dubbed him as a nark, ignoring him like it had gone out of style.

He wondered if it was too late to back out now though he knew Stiles would be sorely disappointed in him.

But contrary to popular opinion, Scott didn’t have a death wish. All he’d ever wanted was to get through his O.W.Ls, date Allison, maybe even marry her after graduation, and then live quietly in a house with a large guest room where Stiles would live and they could all grow old together. How was this too much to ask?

Instead, he gets an asthma attack in his First year, is bitten by a rogue werewolf in his Second, forced to babysit three Franken werebabies by his Third, and now as a Fourth Year; he was a competitor for the most dangerous dog-eat-dog competition to ever exist this side of the continent. Oh, and the entire school hated him.

Well he hated himself too.

 _Woe is me_ , he thinks slumping to the floor, mind racing back to when the terrible news was announced.

 

=

 

_“Have you gone mad Scott? Did your brain decide to take a holiday, had too much fun, then decided to never come back?”_

_“I didn’t do it Stiles! I—“ He protested._

_“Why did you do it? Was it to impress Allison? Course if it was Scott, I swear to Merlin— Why… why don’t you just jump off a ruddy cliff? It’ll take half the effort and quarter the time!”_

_“I couldn’t have, you have to be—“_

_“What I don't understand is why you couldn't be upfront about it, Scott? How could you leave your best friend out of such a terrible, horrible, diabolically ingenious I-wish-I-thought-about-it-first plan?" Stiles fumed in accusation, "Did you not trust me to help you? Is that it? After ten years Scott! For ten whole years, I held your hand through the mud and muck, held you in my arms despite your furry dispositions, held you to my bosom as my brother from another mo—”_

_“I didn’t do it Stiles!” he burst out “I really didn’t!”_

_But Stiles was having none of it, “If you really think that you can’t trust me, then fine! Good bloody luck to you! Let’s see how well you survive the competition without me,” he sniffed “And when you die drowning in a pool of your own blood, I hope you’ll remember who was the one who got your hooter out of that nose-biting teacup.”_

_“Stilesss!” he hissed, looking around to make sure no one was listening, “We promised never to mention that!”_

_“You made me promise. And, if you remember correctly, I just stood there and didn’t say a word. Not a one. A non-verbal contract is therefore ipso facto non-biding in the eyes of the law. It's not my fault you didn't read the fine print and also, this is clearly a breach of power! Fetch me lawyer, I shall see you in court!”_

_He ignored him “ _—__ _Besides I didn’t do it! I couldn’t have, this doesn’t make any sense!”_

_“Oh Scotty, of all the people who’d betray me, I never for one second would thought it would be y—“ Stiles went on, gesturing to the sky._

_At this, Scott roared, shaking the other boy’s shoulders like he was a tub of jelly, “Stiles!” he thundered, “I am your brother, and if I say I didn't do it, then I didn't do it! Do you hear me?”_

_There's a slight pause but the mention of his name must have struck a nerve, for the other boy quickly quieted._

_There’s another moment of silence before he spoke again, much more subdued this time._

_“You said couldn’t.”_

_“Wha—“_

_“You said 'couldn’t', that you 'couldn't' have done it. Why couldn’t you?”_

_“Because!” he flustered, “Because I couldn’t possibly have done it! I wasn’t anywhere near the Goblet that day! Also—”_

_“Also?”_

_“Also.” he continued, glaring at Stiles for interrupting again, “The Ministry upped the security this year by like threefold! Other than the age line, there were protective runes and spells! The high level kind, and I’m terrible at Charms, that’s no secret!”  
_  
_He took a deep breath, "Not to mention, actual Auror guards stationed outside the room. I think I saw Ronald Weasley among them, Ronald Weasley Stiles, did you see im’? Did you see?”_

_“I did.” the other boy nodded solemnly, “I made him sign my chocolate frog card. He didn’t want to at first but I promised to spy— I mean, keep an eye out on Victoria for him, so he agreed. They were pretty cool.”_

_“Right?” Scott grinned but then turned serious, “So it couldn’t have been me. I have neither the idea nor the expertise. And even if I did, you’d be the first person I’d tell.”_

_“I would?”_

_“You would.” He affirmed, nodding violently._

_“Not Allison?”_

_“Allison would be the second.” He hastened to say._

_“If I find out you’ve been lying to me all this time Scotty, I’ll be wearing your skin as a coat!”_

_“I solemnly swear Stiles, on my father’s grave.”_

_“Alright, I trust you ok? Cause you’re Scott and you’re my brother” they smiled at each other._

_Then Stiles pulled him in close, “But someone’s trying to frame you. And we’re gonna figure out who.”_

_“We are?”_

_“No doubt bout' it. Me dad’s Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard, he’s basically muggle Auror and he does this kind of thing all the time, it’s in my blood.” The other boy said proudly, pounding his chest. “But we’ll need to find more clues, draw the links and that’ll lead us to the perpetrator!”_

_“It will?”_

_“Indeed it will, my young padawan! Though before we do, we’ll need to make sure you win this tournament Scotty, I have a feeling it’s the only way we’ll figure this out. With my knowledge of muggle murder mystery books and your wolfy powers, this competition will be a cakewalk.” He grabbed Scott in a chokehold, eyed him with a levelled look and dropped his voice even further._

_“Before that happens, we can’t have you back out of the tournament Scotty, no matter what nobody says. It’s important we find out who did this, that clear?”_

_Scott was uncomfortable under the scrutiny but he nodded his head in agreement anyway._

_What’s the worse that could happen?_

===

 

A long list of things, Scott soon figured. And number one on that list was his imminent death.

Stiles hadn’t helped matters when he’d been forced to read up on the tasks in previous tournaments. A treacherous monster maze, homicidal merpeople, and dragons! Actual fire-breathing _dragons_! Who even came up with this stuff?Scott shook his head, trying to keep his panic at bay.

It certainly hadn’t helped now that he knew students have actually died fighting for the goblet. So happened that the most recent death had been a Hufflepuff from Hogwarts.

Scott swallowed a lump in his throat. Even with the combined brainpower of Scott, Stiles and Allison (or mainly just Stiles and Allison) they hadn’t managed to find any clues on the first task. He would’ve asked Derek if the jerk didn't look at him like he was gum beneath his shoes. Stiles had offered to do it instead because he was the best best-friend in the world, and also he was the only person Derek didn't actively seek out to destroy, what with his prefect privileges and all.

At first he had hesitated. None of their interactions for the past four years had ever gone smoothly, with the older boy becoming a prefect in his Sixth Year and dishing out detention slips like candy at Halloween. Fine, maybe half of them were thanks to Stiles but the dude didn't have to be such a prick all the time.

Things only got worse when Issac and Danny’s fragile relationship devolved into a very messy and very violent breakup. The two circle of friends never quite saw eye to eye after that. Lydia had been livid and Jackson had sworn to beat Isaac in a duel to the death for his friend’s honour, which Stiles had found hilarious. They all knew that Jackson was shite at DADA.

It ended up in a cross-level prank war of sorts, with Stiles and him executing ‘accidental’ acts of sabotage faster than Derek could catch them. The prefect couldn't deduct house points but his girlfriend was Paige Krasikeva, the Head Girl, and she never hesitated to do so at his behest.

Things had never been quite the same since.

But Stiles had assured him that Derek wouldn't mind, that he owed them one, and he believed in Stiles. If anyone could do it, it was his best friend.

Except, even this time Stiles returned empty handed, save for a nasty spell of _Tarantallegra_ as well as a detention slip for starting a duel in the courtyard.

 _“It was four against one, but I beat em."_ Stiles had assured him, feet still tapping on the floor tiles uncontrollably.

 

“Psst, psst!”

 

Speak of the devil! The scent from the whisper smelt oddly familiar, he was sure it was Stiles but all he could hear was the thundering heartbeat of a small animal, perhaps a rabbit?

“Psst, Scott!”

He rushed over to the back and lifted the edges of the tent to reveal… well, nothing.

He squinted sideways for good measure but everyone was too focused in the arena to pay him any mind. He’s about to head back into the tent when he sees a disappointing brown bag thrown in a heap by his feet. Risking another sideway glance, he picked it up gingerly and carried it into the tent, sniffing at the mystery object in wonder.

It smelled like himself and vaguely of Stiles, but predominantly his own scent of cinnamon and dirt. _Huh, that was weird_.

He pulled the drawstrings open, half expecting a Boggart to jump out and attack him but what he found instead was highly anti-climatic.

There, sitting in the brown bag was an old pair of running shoes he had left at the very bottom of his trunk.

It was so old that the front flaps had split open and the laces were now an unidentifiable shade of murky grey, the logo on the side had peeled off and there were tiny holes at the sole.

All in all, not a very impressive sight.

Scott furrowed his brows in confusion, digging further into the bag for any clues. His fingers brush upon a note, scribbled hastily in black ink:

           _Leaping Toadstools_

He flipped over the piece of paper but there was nothing else written at the back. The ‘clue’ had failed to answer any of Scott’s questions, in fact, he was now more confused than ever. 

As he swerved back into the tent, headmistress Mcgonagall called out.

“Scott McCall!”

The mystery shoes were better than nothing, he proposed, if the sender had evil intents for him to die by chocking on his own laces then at least he was going to do so fighting for glory in front of the whole school. It’ll be a much kinder death than whatever sinuous monster was awaiting him anyway. 

He hastily chucked off his black loafers and squeezed his feet into the brown sneakers, testing the stretch of the fabric and grimacing at the offensive footwear. The material was almost falling apart and barely hanging on for dear life, it was definitely in no condition to help him fight or flee from his predicament.

_“Scott McCall, I repeat, Scott McCall please exit the champions tent now!”_

Professor Deaton stormed into the tent and held his arm in a vice-grip, dragging him out as he squawked in indignation.

“Good luck Scott.”

And with a final shove, he was at the edge of the ring.

The gravitas of the entire enclosure made him gasp in shock. Boos and cheers were heard from all around the stands but the crowd was a large blur of colours, too indistinct to recognise. He’s blinded, eyes sharpening yellow at the sheer size of the stadium. He had only ever been a spectator in the stands; never had he dreamed he would one day be fighting at the heart of the battlefield. 

The Quidditch pit looked so much bigger from where he stood.

The area had been cleared for the duration of the tournament, flags of the four houses were stripped down and the badges of the three schools had been hoisted in its place. There was a marching band to his right and Auror guards stationed behind the pen on his left. He turned to look at the centre.

Right smack in the middle of the sandy field was a single medium-seized ball which, when Scott looked closely, resembled a Quaffle. Just behind it stood a high hoop not unlike the ones used for Quidditch games, however this one was noticeably shorter in height.

 _“We welcome the last contestant, Scott McCall, a Fourth Year from the Hufflepuff house!”_ A booming voice echoed throughout the stadium, _“The objective is simple Champion, throw the Quaffle through the hoop before time runs out.”  
_

Scott glanced up, behind the spectator’s house there was a giant scoreboard and a clock right beside it. He had one hour.

 _This is gonna be fun._ He thought, tightening his grip on his wand.

_“This must be done to claim a clue for which without, you will be unable to proceed to the Second Task. Best of luck Champion, and let the final round begin!”_

The crowd roared once again. Scott winced at the impact on his over-sensitive ears.

He took an experimental step forward, gauging the distance to the ball. It was laying there innocently enough, but not even Scott was fooled into thinking that things would be so easy.

And he was right. Just as he reached the edge of the giant sand pit, the ground began to quake in anger, the turbulence sending streams of sand and gravel towards the stadium.

Something was digging underground, something very big and with Scott’s luck, something that had very sharp teeth. 

The stream of sand began to take form, coiling round and round that by the time Scott could wipe the silt from his eyes, there was a tornado of gravel and dirt spinning up into the sky.

The wind whipped ferociously, slicing at his face as larger rocks and cobbles were sucked into the vortex, swirling in a chaotic tango that was rapidly speeding towards him.

As he held his arms up to shield from the onslaught, Scott thinks he can see his life flash before him.

He thought about Allison, about Stiles and then settled onto the image of his mother's face, she looked tired but she was smiling, fussing over him and trying to stuff his chubby cheeks with food even though he was already a teenager with a chiseled albeit crooked jawline.

When he was younger, his mum had reminded him time and time again that there were a myriad of ways that people could get killed. Not in a morbid sense of course, just a mother’s neurotic concern for her child and a healthy respect for the fragility of life.

 _Look left, look right, then look left again Scott,_ she had chided every time they crossed the street, his hand balled tightly in hers. When he went for swim lessons to strengthen his lungs, she had pushed nose plugs into his hands, angling his head up to force the offensive wads up his nostrils, _Wear em’ or you’ll drown Scott_. Or even the time she told him not to dig his finger too high up his nose or it’ll get stuck in his brain and kill him, B _rain hemorrhage will kill you Scott, I know because I’ve seen it happen_.

She had been lying then, but Scott was eight and he didn't know that. In the eyes of a child, a mother is god, and also, she was a nurse. If anyone knew anything about life-threatening diseases then it was his mum. But of all the silly and downright creative deaths she had warned him about, there was one she clearly hadn’t thought of. 

Being buried alive.

An old song from the 1970s he’d heard on the radio began to loop traitorously in his mind, except part of the lyrics had been changed: 

           _Ah Ah Ah_

          Stayin _Alive  
__Buried Alive_

           _Ah Ah Ah_

          Stayin _Alive  
_           Buried Alive...

Stiles was right, was Scott’s last thought as his jaws dropped and he stared open-mouthed at the creature crawling out from the sand.

_Jumping off a cliff would have been much, much easier._

  

===

  

“Bollocks! I haven’t missed anything, have I?”

“Stiles! Where have you been? You've missed almost everything!” Allison chided, she was smiling but her nervousness was evident.

He shrugged, “I made it in time for Scott, didn’t I?” Then he grinned cheekily, “Where is he anyway? Are we cheering or-“

Dirt spewed into his mouth, stopping him in mid-sentence while Kira barely made it in time to shield them with her umbrella.

“What the devil—!“

A giant worm-like shadow burst forth from the ground, emitting a high-pitch shriek.

The spectators recoiled behind the stands and Stiles could only stare mutely at the creature looming ahead. 

A shiny chrome black centipede body was protruding out like a coiled viper, it’s antenna eyes swiveling back and forth like overcooked meatballs, effectively blocking out the sun. It whipped around like nunchucks suspended in midair, raising higher and higher to form a continuous link of raw sausage. It reminded Stiles of the sticky jellied ice-pop tubes he had as a child, the super long ones with the pinched plastic ridges and a tip you had to suck out from. 

The thing was _massive_ ; he had never seen anything like it. He didn't have an irrational fear of bugs like most people did but then again no worm he’d ever seen was thirty feet high and wriggling like a serpent in the sky. Just looking at the creature made him feel like there were invisible ants crawling up and down his arm. He shivered involuntarily.

He didn't want to think about exactly how big it was, considering the other half of its body was still hidden underground.

He squinted against the onslaught of sand that was whirring in his face. There were huge armoured plates lining the entirety of its sausage segmented body and when it moved, they shone and shivered in every direction, revealing a pair of _Legs? Hands?_ on each side, extending and retracting with every wave of movement, flickering like the hairs of a toothbrush.

Using his omnioculars, he could see that the legs and hands were actually feelers, small, sharp, black claw-like feelers that were lined with even smaller rows of tiny razor-like teeth. He had no doubt in his mind that those teeth were rimmed with poison. 

Somewhere from behind him, someone shouted.

_“Yea! Go tear his face off, ugly!”_

He turned around and squinted, not surprised to find that the voice belonged to Jackson bloody Whittermore. Because of course it is! Who else could be so incredibly stupid to yell at a thirty feet mythical beast? Never mind that it could cut you in half without even blinking. ( _Did it blink? Did it even have eyes?)_ Where in blazes was Lydia with his leash?

He’s about flip him off when the monster reared its head-like appendix and Stiles was stunned into silence, all the hairs on his back raised on their ends.

At the tip of the worm-like monster, where a head should have been, there lay a gaping black hole instead.

As it approached Stiles could see a flat yellow-gold exoskeleton at the top of its mouth before that gave way to rows and rows of triangular teeth that were linked like a spiral chainsaw. They lined the entirety of the centipede’s throat and down into the abyss that was the rest of its body. It was like looking into a heavy-duty shredder machine from the inside out.

It’s tiny incisors shone like pieces of cut glass, glittering in the sunlight.

He had never seen anything so beautiful, or quite so lethal.

Then the chains of teeth began roaring into life, moving jagged faults in one direction. Down its huge gaping mouth. Black talons along its body emitted angry chirps like the sound of a thousand cicadas.

Clearly the creature had not taken to being called ugly and the next high-pitched shriek sent hats, scarves and umbrellas flying backwards.

The loud _twang_ of metal hitting metal made his teeth ache, and the resounding vibrations left a persistent ringing in his eardrums.

“What the bloody hell is that?” He gasped, “I’ve never seen or read about anything like it in the books before!”

“That’s cause it’s from North Asia, any information about it would’ve been lost in translation. Its name is actually _Okiku-mushi_ , often mistaken for the Egyptian Sepa. Apparently it was a gift from the Mahoutokoro School of Magic, they had it shipped all the way here.” Kira said proudly.

If Stiles weren’t so fearful that his best friend was going to lose his life, he would be proud of her too.

“So this thing’s name is Mushy? That’s seems fairly ironic, all things considered.” he surveyed the metallic teeth in apprehension.

“ _Okiku-mushi_ Stiles,” she tut-tutted, “They say the 2006 earthquake in Japan was caused by them. Apparently some muggles were expanding into their territoty and the digging killed their young ones. Obviously, they got very, very angry.” The Beauxbatons girl responded as if this was common knowledge.

He’s about to retort when from the corner of his eye, he noticed Scott darting frantically back and forth in the sand pit like a madman. The boy had taken the momentary distraction to head for the center, scrambling desperately towards the Quaffle still resting patiently on the ground.

Before he can reach it however, another shadow surged from below the earth, sending Scott’s tiny frame hurling backwards, slamming into the wooden beams with a resounding bang.

The crowd jeered.

Stiles watched flabbergasted, “Shite, how many of them are there?”

Kira winced, “So far? Five. But they don’t come up more than three at a time."

"Is Scott all right? He doesn't seem to be moving!”

His eyes bugged out of their sockets. Three? One was problem enough but _three?_ Who in blazers decided these numbers?

Whipping back to Scott’s frozen stance on the ground, he wanted, for the first time in a long while, to cry.

He had just sent his best friend to his own death.

If Scott’s ghost didn’t come back to kill him then at least Mrs McCall will finish the job. He sniffed and thought sullenly, peering over the stands as Scott barely has enough time to whip out his wand before his small frame was thrown across the wooden panel, yet again.

  

===

  

Scott wiped the sweat from his brow and forced himself to calm down. _How did Derek even beat this?_  

Hugging the edge of the arena, it was clear that the centipede creatures, whatever they were, could not cross an invisible boundary around the sandpit or risk injuring the audience.

 _That’s… gotta be an advantage right?_ At least it gave him some time to think about his next move.

So just walking across was definitely out, what else could he do?

He concentrated his werewolf hearing onto the ground, blocking out the screams and cheers of the crowd around him. He could feel the whirl of heavy machinery snaking below his feet. If these things were fast above ground, they were even faster below it. So trying to dig his way through was definitely out.

He could fly, he considered, wiping another sheen of sweat with his sleeve. He could summon his broom or a levitation spell to pick up the Quaffle and throw it in the loop before the worms got too close to him. Stiles had taught him the summoning spell in their Third Year when his friend’s Harry Potter craze was at its peak and Stiles wanted to master every spell The Boy Who Lived had ever been cited to use. Scott had called him out on his creepy stalker obsession but now he wished he had taken the notion more seriously.

The beasts didn’t seem to have eyes though, at least not ones that Scott could see from his position on the ground. But if they lived in the dark, that would make sense. Kind of like plants that use etiolation to grow or bats that use echolocation to navigate. Scott thanks every star that his mum’s encouragement in his prepubescent fascination with plants and animals had finally paid off. If he even survives this, he’s gonna send her the biggest Thank-You card in the history of mum-dom.

“ _Accio Comet!”_ he chanted, waving his wand unsteadily as beads of sweat cascaded down his forehead in concentration.

It’ll be risky but it could work, he thought urgently.

At least, it’s the only thing he could think of.

The broom jostled to a stop in front of him and he climbed on hastily. Right before another giant centipede burst forth from below his feet.

Mechanical razor claws closed in, shearing off the ends of his broomstick. Closer and closer until they were kissing the frayed ends of his shirt, tickling the sensitive tip of his tailbone. 

But then he was surging forward, leaving the empty gaping mouth to chase him up into the skies.

Panting, Scott hunched further onto his broom to gain as much distance.

Craning his neck, he could see the dismembered bodies of the mechanical worms hiding under the sand. Their huge armoured plates creating inflamed pimples that were about to burst just below the surface.

He didn't have time for Plan B, there was only one path to that Quaffle and he had to make it before time ran out. Or risk falling to his death.

_Now or never._

He took a deep breath, swerved, and plunged headfirst back into the field.

 

===

  

“Vrong move.“

Malia was suddenly beside him. She was distractingly close, thin arms pressed against his shoulder, leaning onto him like a sack of bricks.

_Boundaries much?_

Not that Stiles minded, not that he minded at all.

“Why’s that?” He frowned at her, “It’s actually pretty clever, I mean by Scott’s standards. I totally taught him that spell.” He crossed his arms in defence but his fingers grabbed the sides of his sweater worriedly.

He hated to agree with the Durmstrang girl but something was clearly wrong.

The entire stadium was quiet now, and the air hung with trepidation, as if anticipating the ensuing chaos.

Allison piped back, hurriedly covering her ears with her hands “The Durmstrang champion— Liam Dunbar did it too.

"It didn’t end well.”

Before he can retort, all five monster centipedes surged from the pit like chubby black fingers grabbing for the sun. Their emergence sent ruptures of sand and violent tremors throughout the stands.

All at once the gaping spirals of knives unsheathe, naked hatchlings awaiting pre-chewed morsels for their feeding frenzy.

At that instant, Stiles feared he’d gone deaf.

Not a pinprick of decibel sound was heard, and then it's a thousand fingernails dragging along a chalkboard, the volume intensifying until it’s a cacophony of stainless steel forks scratching the surface of porcelain plates, an oil refinery of drills whirring and wheezing into life. He felt his blood pressure rise to his head, the racket threatening to split his head open at the seams and reveal the thick gooey membrane inside. The frequency only rocketed higher, forcing his eyes shut and his whole body recoiled at the assault, fingers trembling in the aftermath.

When his eyes open again, it’s to see Scott dropping a hundred feet from the air; five hungry mouths eagerly watching him.

 

===

 

 _This is it,_ Scott thinks.

As if being bitten by a rogue werewolf wasn’t bad enough, now it’s this. This is how he’s gonna go, he hadn’t even kissed Allison yet.

 _Oh my god_ , he thought in horror, _I’m going to die a virgin_.

The first mouth surged forward to swallow him whole but narrowly misses in its eagerness before snaking down again, the steel scales knocking him further down to the rest of the centipedes below.

The spectators were still silent, watching in rapt horror as the black beasts curled upwards to knock him back and forth like a rag doll, fighting each other to get to him.

The downward force of gravity was a blurred tumble of motion but he thinks he sees the Auror guards rushing towards him, having finally decided to step in. Their navy blue coats hemmed the edges of his vision like a beacon. He could see Mr Potter rushing to the front.

Hopefully none of his internal organs will fall out. His stomach churned at the thought, all that would be left of his body was a splatter of overripe tomato squashed at the curb. The poor sucker stuck with cleaning duty would have a field day mucking up everything. Bit of ruptured tissue here, bit of mashed spleen there.

_“Scott! Scott over here!”_

It’s Stiles, waving around like a fish out of water.

 _Ah old reliable Stiles._  

If Scott managed to pass onto the afterlife, he’ll arrange for upper management to get his friend laid. Both of them deserved it and in the foreseeable future, it surely wasn't him. 

 _It's the least I could do._ He thought, smiling to himself as his bones cracked and the wind was whipped out from his lungs, quickly losing consciousness.

He’ll make sure that Stiles didn’t die a virgin like he did. That’s just too sad for any tombstone to read.   
  
           _Scott Mccall 2004 - 2019_  
           _Beloved Son & Brother_  
           _Died A Virgin._

 _“Scott! Listen! Think on your feet!”_ Stiles screamed but his voice was barely a whisper.

His best friend had always been smart and resourceful since they were kids. Sure he got them into a whole lot of trouble but Scott was always happy with the distraction. His Mum rarely let him outside because of his lung condition but Stiles could never hope to be house-trained and they matured into accomplished escape artists and mischief makers by the time they were ten.

_“You can do this Scott, just think on your bloody FEET!”_

Then he remembered.

 _The shoes!_ And his werewolf instincts were kicking into overdrive.

His fingers sprouted claws through their gloved cages, digging into the armoured plates. The scrape of metal against metal, bone against bone caused sparks to fly.

He twisted in mid-air trying to get a good grip. If he couldn't latch on before he fell to the ground then it was game over.

Another centipede slammed into his back.

He could hear the sick snap of his ribs shredding to bits but he gritted through the pain, fangs sliding out to bite at his lower lip. He tried again, drilling his nails in so deep that they were nearly being ripped off. He felt a soft c _runch_ past the armoured plates before sinking into the tender exposed flesh, a string of green gooey liquid spurted out immediately, bleeding in streams from the open wound.

The beast roared. 

He ignored it and dug deeper, hearing the sickening pop of intestines. The claws on his hind legs gave him better leverage, those horrible shoes with the open flaps providing just enough cover to keep his furry feet from peeking out.

A cannonball poised for takeoff, he pulled his body back like a slingshot, preparing for the spring.

           _Leaping toadstools_

The trajectory is less than ideal, as he bounced off solid metal only to be catapulted towards another giant centipede. At least this time he landed squarely on his feet.

He half expected the whiplash to shred the ligaments in his knees like papier-mâché, even for his werewolf reflexes, but all he feels is a bubble-like _squish._ A surprising bounciness at the balls of his feet.

Realisation hit him like a bludgeon _. Of course!_ The shoes were enchanted! Probably with some hybrid combination spell of the Softening and Cushioning charm. Stiles was always the best at hybrid spells.

He glanced down in awe, he had never been so thankful for a pair of stinky shoes in his life.

He doesn’t have long to marvel though, for the foiled beast shook violently to throw him off.

Scott has to clamp his mouth shut to keep his wolf from grinning. He always knew Stiles had a plan, no matter how long the hold up, his best friend always had a plan.

Tracking the movements of the beast with his heightened sights, he soared across the air once again, before landing dead centre on the yellowed forehead of the next centipede. 

This time, the timing was beautifully accurate.

As the insect flung itself across the surface of the sandpit in frustration, he swooped down to grab the Quaffle. And with one final well-timed leap, threw the ball into the pending hoop.

 

===

  

“Did you see that? Did you SEE? That’s my best friend folks, that’s right you heard it!” 

Stiles could barely hear himself past all the yelling and cheering from all sides. Beside him, Kira is shaking his hands while jumping up and down. He turns to his right and pulled Malia into a hug, lifting her off the ground despite her laughing in protest.

“That’s the man I share my underwear with people! No lie! Scott McCall, he’s my brother, that’s him, right there!” 

From the top of the stand, a booming voice echoed, “ _Congratulations to Hufflepuff Champion Scott McCall for successfully completing the First Task! Will the Champion please step up onto the podium to claim his prize.”_

As if on command, the five giant centipedes froze in place before mechanically drilling themselves back into the ground, the five pillar shaped bodies forming the five edges of a makeshift pentagon, with Scott standing right in the middle. One moment they were frozen ramrod straight like giant shiny black towers, and the next they were curling into tight coils and sinking back into the soft sand.

The ground trembled delicately, welcoming her inhabitants back home.

Strands of soil are combed away before they are replaced with five metal beams, spreading out and joining together into a silver pentagonal pyramid, its smooth edges rising steadily from the earth like a perfectly cut diamond, carrying Scott along with it.

Even from his perch up on the stands Stiles could see the spirals etched along the silver surface, not unlike the curled up centipedes that had disappeared somewhere below the earth.  
The Quaffle lying forgotten on the sand is now spinning slowly into life, emitting a bright blue light. Its spin gains momentum, ricocheting off the ground and into the hoop, fitting snugly in the circle as it spun faster and faster, the blue sphere of light shining brighter and brighter in the middle of the platform.

Scott approached cautiously and held out his right hand.

In response, the spinning orb reached its peak, before finally slowing down and cracking open like an egg, revealing a small multi-coloured triangular object that shimmered brilliantly, falling softly into Scott’s outstretched palm.

He barely has time to register that the object is a tetrahedron before he’s smothered in Stile’s full-body embrace, long legs squeezing around his torso, he sees Allison and Kira not far behind, and then it's a sea of faces bobbing up and down like waves, an endless _whoosh_ of cheering from all sides. He barely even registers being hoisted up into the air before he’s carried off in celebration, back to Hogwarts castle for some well deserved merrymaking.

   

* * *

 

**1st December 2019**

 

It’s late into the semester before Mcgonagall formally introduces Harry to the school and by then, half of the students was already aware of the news, while the other half was ambushing him with handshakes at every interval.

By then, he’d learnt a few key things.

Firstly, that the Hufflepuff boy he’d met on his first day was also the Fourth Year Triwizard Champion he’d been tasked to protect. It was as much as a coincidence as Mcgongall had assured him, though Harry had been far from convinced.

The second thing he’d learnt was that though Hermione hadn’t lied about upping the security, she had certainly glossed over the danger levels involved in the tournament.  _‘A sliver of danger’_ as she had put it, was complete poppycock. The phrase could not at all compare to what he’d seen at the first day of the tournament. If anything, they had gotten more creative since the last time he had participated.

He half expected Scott McCall to plunge to his death, even before Harry could do anything to save him. If not for those enchanted shoes of his, the boy would’ve been strawberry jam on toast.  
Still, Harry found the whole thing rather strange. He’d expected severed limbs or at least a few broken bones, but when they surveyed the boy for injuries, he’d been perfectly fine, better than fine in fact, with not even a single scratch or blemish on that perfectly smooth olive tan skin.

He’d pondered that for a long while.

He had been on the ground that day, and had clearly seen the boy being thrown against solid steel, could even faintly hear the breaking of bones in the distance. But then Scott had jumped back into the chaos, like a toy on a spring. Once again, he felt like he was on the cusp of remembering something important, but couldn't quite grasp it, not yet at least. The sensation was a niggling itch in his brain.

The third thing he’d found out was that Mcgonagall had stationed his office high up in the north wing for a reason, _that clever old crone_ , so that he could be as far away from anyone and anyplace as much as possible. Nobody ever went anywhere near his office unless they were up to no good, clearly it was a message specifically sent to him.

“Can I _go_ now?”

The sharp voice snaps him back from his reverie and he sighed, trying to refocus his attention on the student sitting across from him by removing his glasses and wiping the lens absently.

“No, Ms Reyes. Not until you tell me the real reason for your sudden change in behavior.”

She was a Fourth Year with golden locks and ruby red lips twisted into a haughty smirk, the sign ‘ _Troublemaker_ ’ was practically stamped on her forehead. Harry looked down at his parchment; her profile stated that she had been afflicted with epilepsy until her Third Year, for which she had then been a constant target for in-house bullying. But she did well in classes and kept to herself, so none of the teachers had intervened.  
Not until the beginning of her Fourth Year that is, where she had unleashed her revenge upon her oppressors in many creative and often rather violent ways, and she's continued to be a menace to everyone else ever since.

“Change of heart, I guess.” She spitted out, popping the blue gum loudly in her mouth. 

Harry didn't believe that for a second, “Is that so?”

“It is so. Look, can I be frank with you Mr Potter?” But before Harry can get a word edgeways, she continued, “Well I’m going to anyway. It’s been over a year and none of the other teachers can figure it out, not even Headmistress Mcgonagall and that lady is one tough cookie.”

She leaned forward seductively, cocking a thin eyebrow at him, “So why don't we just let it remain a mystery? A secret just between you and I. Then I’ll leave and say that this was helpful, and you can get a free period to rest and relax, do whatever you want to do. The life of a teacher is terribly taxing you know, or at least that's what I've been told.”

“That sounds wonderful indeed.” He responds, nodding his head in agreement.

“Doesn't it?”

“Except for one thing, Ms Reyes.”

“Oh? And what might that be?” she asked, tossing her hair from one side to the other.

He leaned forward over his desk, a haunting expression in his steely eyes. “None of the other teachers, or even Headmistress Mcgonagall for that matter, have had twenty years of experience chasing Death Eaters down narrow alleyways.”

“But I have.” He said slowly, letting the information sink, “And none of them have a grasp on dark magic quite like I do.”

“What do you mean.” Erica demanded evenly, voice sharpening and dark eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Harry reclined on his armchair, hearing it creak in satisfaction, “You’re smart, I’m sure you’ve already figured that out.” He cocked the side of his head in curiosity, “Epilepsy is a debilitating seizure disorder is it not? I must admit I know next to nothing about it, but it’s not unlike cancer or the plague, is it? One of the few muggle ailments that not even magic can heal.” He shook his head in pity.

“But I know for a fact that there are three ways to cure muggle diseases like yours.”

At this, she visibly paled.

“You don't know anything!” She bit out, flawless exterior crumbling away like toy blocks. 

“Oh but I do, Ms Reyes. Shall I tell it to you?” Harry said softly, like he was reading from an old fairytale. “The first solution Ms Reyes, is that you are not in fact Erica Reyes at all, but someone else entirely. Someone who is under the strong influence of a very potent Polyjuice potion.” 

She snorted, but otherwise kept deathly silent.

“The second solution, and I hope for your sake, that this isn’t true,” Harry said severely, “is Necromancy.”

“Not the kind to revive the dead of course, but it is possible to reanimate a part of the body that was previously damaged.” He tapped an index finger to his temple.

“No one has ever done it successfully, that’s complete hogwash.” Erica rolled her eyes, twitching uncomfortably in her seat.

“Oh, you’d be surprised Ms Reyes. There were many before you who have died trying.” He supplied, watching her carefully, “And the third and last option is…” he held his breath, hoping against hope he wasn't right.

“Lycanthropy.” He finished. 

She was still silent but her face had gone white, her dangling red lips looking more and more like velvet pillows stuffed across her cheeks.

“…Which of these do you think is most likely Ms Reyes?” he pondered idly.

To her credit, she hadn’t reacted, hadn’t moved a muscle as if she was frozen in place, Harry was almost impressed at her calmness if she hadn’t gotten up gracefully and stomped out of the room without uttering a single word.

But they both knew her answer, and now all Harry needed to do was to find the evidence to prove it.

 

* * *

 

**27 November 2019**

  

“So how did you do it? Tell us everything!” It’s Kira who’s directing the question at him.

Scott waited for his best friend to answer, since _he_ was technically the one who had thought of the brilliant plan in the first place, and he knew that his best friend never passed up on the chance to boast of his devious exploits, especially to an enraptured audience.  
But Stiles kept uncharacteristically quiet so he shrugged and responded easily, “It was a hybrid spell of Spongify and Molliare, they were cast on my shoes.”

A chorus of _‘oh’_ s and _‘ah’_ s filled the room. 

A hand came up to slap him on the back, “Congratulations Scott, you deserve it! Especially after your performance today, you had us all worried for a second there.” It’s Stiles and he’s grinning from ear to ear. 

Scott laughed sheepishly, settling beside Allison with his arms around her waist. They’re crowded in a far corner of the Great Hall, having migrated from the Hufflepuff common room after successfully tearing him away from adoring housemates, who were still busy celebrating amongst themselves downstairs.

“He was just lucky this time.” Jackson said ruefully but Lydia fixed him with a strict stare.

“Don't listen to him Scott, he’s just a little jealous. Aren’t you, sweet pea?” She said mockingly, giving the corner of Jackson’s mouth a small slap before replacing it with a firm kiss.

“Geez, get a room.” Stiles moaned begrudgingly, earning him a round of laughter from the group.

Scott is tugging a stray strand of hair from his girlfriend's eyes when he sees Derek gliding down the hallway, Boyd, Erica and Isaac hot on his heels. They make eye contact briefly but Derek doesn’t spare him a second glance as the entourage head straight for the Quad, never slowing down as they pass. Until Erica spots him amongst the crowd. 

“Well, well look who it is.” she smirks, placing a red manicured finger on her equally red lips, “Congratulations Scott, didn't think you’d actually make it! We had a bet and everything! Either you would Win, Lose, or Die. Sadly, I picked the last option, can you imagine my disappointment?”

There’s a moment of tense silence, electricity cackling in the air.

“I knew you would win Scott.” Isaac implored honestly, a gesture that Scott appreciated vastly. He’d never gotten close to the trio, not even after helping them in their first transformation, but Isaac had remained his favourite amongst the three stooges.

“And I lost twenty sickles.” Boyd responded stoically, snaking a strong arm firmly around Erica’s waist.

“Though you gotta admit,” she mused playfully, flipping her blonde locks, “You lacked a little… finesse, wouldn't you say?”

The silence dragged on.

He’s about to retort before Stiles beats him to it, “No, I wouldn't say so but then again I wouldn't know.” The boy chirped cheerfully, even though the question was clearly not directed at him.

She glared at him, cheeks tinged red, “Not asking you Stilinski!”

“Then who are you asking?” Stiles deadpans.

Scott snorted and his lips are splitting into a grin before he can help himself, the rest of the crowd reduced to muffled giggles under her intense glare. Stiles leans over the table to high-five him before clutching at his own stomach, trying his best to stamp out the peals of laughter and shaking with the effort. 

Erica was clearly not as amused. She slammed her hands against the table making her protest known, sharp nails sliding out threateningly from under her robes.

Behind her, Boyd crossed his arms and Isaac sucked in a nervous breath.

The electricity in the air intensified into a full current. Scott gnashed his teeth, _if it was a fight she wanted then she can hav_ —

“Let’s GO.” Derek barks out from way ahead of them, the other two boys share a look before hastening to follow their leader as he disappeared out into the corridor. Only Erica lingered behind, mouth hanging agape as if she wanted to argue but then thought better of it, instead she whispered softly under her breath, the sound so low so that only his werewolf ears could pick up.

“ _You best handle yourself McCall. If anyone finds out what you are, your life is not the only one at risk here_.”

“ERICA!”Derek’s voice thunders in the distance and she scampers off hurriedly to join them.

After they’re gone, Allison tightens her grip on his arm until his own nails have sheathed back and his fangs shrunk back into blunt human teeth. He hadn’t even realized the shift.

She smiles at him, her scent soft and comforting and he smiles back at her, they share a look; hers of worry and his of dissipating anger.

“What a bunch of turds.” Stiles sneers from opposite him, but his honey-brown eyes watch them carefully from across the room, never once leaving the trio’s retreating forms.

  

* * *

 

**7th December 2019**

 

“Stiles, this is hopeless!” Scott groaned in exasperation.

They had been stuck in the library for _four_ hours, trying to get a head start on researching the Second Task and Scott was about to tear his hair out in frustration. Allison had left twenty minutes ago for her extra credit classes after throwing them an apologetic look. He’d waved at her as she exited the room and with her gone, so had his attention for whatever they were trying to find.

“Look Scott, like I’ve been telling you for the last three and a half hours, if we can figure out what kind of creature you’re facing next, then maybe we can find a way to defeat it, or at least better prepare for it. Let's see here…” He muttered not even looking up from his perch over a large encyclopedia.

Scott tossed the tetrahedron from one hand to another listlessly, its chrome finish dancing in the light. There were four triangles that made up the tetrahedron and each surface glimmered a different metallic color, red, yellow, blue and green. He eyed it warily, they had been mulling over the stupid thing for weeks to no avail.

They tried all kinds of ways to open it but no spell had even left a crack, the reflective faces of the triangles laughing slyly at their efforts.

Then they had gotten creative, dropping it from the top of the Astronomy Tower, dunking it into the Black Lake and tossing it into a bubbling cauldron. None of it worked, not even a little bit. They even tried burning it in a large brick fireplace, the one found in the kitchens. But that had only enraged an army of house-elves, unleashing a steady slew of pots and pans at them as they raced out.

They’d almost given up by then, but not before Stiles had the brilliant plan to spy on Derek and sneak into the Gryffindor common room. They had heard from the grape vine that the prefect had already figured things out and was busy preparing for the task in the Forbidden Forest. 

He cringed at the memory and no matter what Stiles had said, it had been an all round bad plan.

= 

 _They had just arrived outside the Gryffindor tower near midday, the perfect time when they knew that everyone else would be at classes and the Fat Lady would be sound asleep._ _What they didn’t know was that Derek would be on his way to the Grand Staircase and had decided to use the tower as a shortcut just as Scott slipped into the common room, leaving Stiles alone to face their tormentor._

 _“Oh bloody hell, it's Derek, he’s coming this way!” Scott groaned, whispering urgently through the crack at the door, “I told you this was a bad idea! Now what do we do?”_

_“I’ll distract him, you go up there and escape through the window,” Stiles had whispered back fervently, “And remember to close it this time, for Merlin’s sake!” hissing after the Hufflepuff boy as he bounded up the stairs. He barely had time to shut the door before Derek was hovering above him._

_“Stiles?”_

_He meeped, heart doing cartwheels in his chest as the older boy approached._

_“Are you alright?” came the concerned voice, followed by a flurry of eyebrows. Damn him and those damned eyebrows._

_“Me? I’m perfectly fine, I’m better than fine! Just peachy, is what I am!” He smiled nervously, trying to bat his eyelashes but just ending up with a nervous tick instead._

_“Is that so? Mind telling me what you’re doing here then.” Derek crossed his arms, scowling at him._

_Stiles huffed hurriedly, “Why it’s beautiful day Derek, or haven’t you noticed? Too busy brooding in dark corners, I suppose.” He sneered, “The sun is high and the air is fresh, can’t I take a walk by the lovely Griffindor common room on such a beautiful day?”_

_“You have your own common room.”_

_“Bah, the odour in the dungeons can hardly compare to the swift summery wind up here!”_

_“It’s winter Stiles.”_

_“Right” he swallowed, “Uh…”_

_Derek’s narrowed his eyes in suspicion, the corner of his thin lips cocking sideways as he took a step forward, “Then you wouldn’t mind if I returned to my dorm room, would you?”_

_He instinctively shifted to block the door._

_“Of course not Derek, you can go anywhere you so choose, anywhere where the wind blows! Who am I to stop you?” Stiles’ mind was running a mile a minute, “Except you can’t come in here, not here, not right now.” He swallowed heavily._

_“Oh?” Derek took another step forward. Stiles felt he was trapped between a rock and a hard place._ _“And why’s that.”_

_“It’s because um… its because…” he racked his brain, trying to think of something as the scowl on Derek’s perfectly proportioned face deepened. They were almost at eye level now and he could smell Derek’s cologne on his tongue. He squeezed his eyes shut, unwilling to be distracted._

_“I’m studying the circumcision of male genitals!” he blurted out._

_There's a moment of absolute silence before he opened one eye experimentally. Derek was just staring at him, scowl still firmly in place. At least he wasn’t advancing anymore._

_Stiles counted it his blessing._

_“What? It’s an important part of muggle studies." He defended, "Did you know that male circumcision can affect economic growth in a burgeoning country? I wrote about it in our term paper. Though Professor Finstock hadn’t been too keen on the idea. He gave me a ‘D’ even though it was obviously an Outstanding masterpiece. One of my finest, if I do say so myself.”_

_An awkward silence settled between them, one that made Stiles edge backwards cautiously, he felt strangely like an animal on display at a safari, probably a giraffe, or maybe a zebra. Though having permanent body stripes would be dope._

_“Maybe I’ll read it sometime.”_

_Stiles’ eyes widened in shock, for once his hyperactive mind halted to a complete stop, his focus zeroing in on Derek. The older boy was still scowling and he couldn't tell if that was a tone of sarcasm or not, but then again he’d never been any good at reading other people’s expressions, it’s one his few, if not only, fatal flaw._

_“I— …Ok.” the statement sounded more like a question._

_“Ok.” Derek licked his lips, cramming his fists into his pockets._

_Stiles stared down at his feet, suddenly weary at the attention. This was turning into some weird, power-play gig and Stiles wasn't going to stay a minute longer to see how it would pan out._   _He decided that Scott probably had enough time to snoop and evacuate the premises by now, and even if he didn’t, Stiles wouldn’t be caught dead for another round of detentions._

_“Maybe I'll pass you the um... papers some other time? My next class is starting soon so I’ll just be on my way, minding my own business, not doing anything I’m not suppose to.” He wheezed out, “Ha... so… uh, guess I’ll see you around?” he winced at his own voice, why did he have to sound so squeaky._

_“So long Stiles.”_

_He turns to flee but before he can take another step, Derek’s voice echoes from behind him._

_“And Stiles?”_

_He whipped his head back on instinct, “Yep?”_

_“Next time Scott decides to trespass the Gryffindor common room please remind him to close the window on his way out.”_

_He froze mid-step, “Wha— How did you—“_

_“Werewolf,” Derek smirked, tapping the tip of his nose as his eyes flashed red. “Remember?”_

_Then he shut the door in his face._

  =

Scott hadn’t managed to find out anything of use and once again, in his haste, had forgotten to lock the window. Stiles hadn’t seemed to mind their spectacular venture ending in failure. In fact, after the encounter with Derek, his best friend had been shocked into silence for a few good hours, only occasionally muttering the words ‘ _male circumcision’_ and _‘Derek Hale’_ under his breath deliriously.

That had been a very bad sign, and it worried Scott greatly. Maybe Derek had jinxed him somehow. 

He was half tempted to drag his friend to the hospital wing despite his persistent protests. He didn't know what happened between the two, but a quiet Stiles was never a good thing.

 

===

   

They had just exited the library in defeat when a voice beckoned them from behind.

“Scott, Stiles! Wait up!” It was Kira, her raven black hair swishing in the wind as she ran to catch up with them.

Kira had been a Hogwarts student until last spring, before her parents had upped and moved to France to further Mrs Yukimura’s career as a dragonologist. Stiles was glad to see her again after their tearful reunion on Halloween but he knew she was happier in Beauxbatons than she had ever been in Hogwarts. She harboured a huge crush on Scott for over two years, but the clueless Hufflepuff had been entirely too besotted with wooing Allison to pay her any attention and from the bottom of his heart, he knew what that felt like.  
They were sad to see her go. Stiles even more so, for without her companionship he was now the official third wheel. They threw her a big going away party with much fanfare, but he knew the separation couldn't have come at a better time.

She took a sharp intake of breath before blurting out, “Deaton wants to see you!”

Scott immediately turned to him accusingly, “Stiles! What did you do this time?”

“Why me? Your track record has been less than stellar this year too, you know!”

They were arguing back and forth when Kira yelled, “Listen, he wanted to see the _two_ of you! He didn't say what about, just that it was urgent.” she huffed out, leaning against the stone walls to catch her breath, “You boys best hurry, he’s waiting in the History of Magic classroom. Oh, and Mr Potter was with him! Though he didn’t seem very pleased to be there.”

He shared a look with Scott then took off running, waving his thanks to Kira as they sprinted across the foyer.

When they round a bend, Scott called out anxiously “What do you think he wants with us? We haven’t done anything!”

Stiles pursed his lips, trying to recall the things they could’ve done to incur Deaton’s wrath. Usually it was a long list, but he’d been so focused on researching the tetrahedron lately that it left little brain space for anything else.

Then he snapped his fingers, “Oh!”

“What?” Scott slowed, trailing beside him.

He winced. “Ok so this might be my fault after all.”

“Stiles… please tell me you didn't plant dungbombs in his office again, or that you didn't replace his ink bottle with Peruvian instant darkness powder, or that you didn’t—“ 

“No, not Deaton, I’m talking about Mr Potter.” But Stiles couldn't help but relinquish in his past glory, smiling at the fond memory, those had been the good days.

“I swear… all I wanted was his signature on my chocolate frog card!”

“And? What else?” Scott glared as they trudged up the stairs.

“Why do you always assume there must be something else? It hurts my feelings when you do this Scotty, you have no—”

“Stiles.”

“Fine! There were twelve other cards I wanted his signature on, and I _might_ have charged some people a very _small_ fee to get it.”

Scott groaned, “That’s called fraud Stiles… And also extortion.” They had arrived right outside the classroom but were reluctant to enter and face the music.

“Excuse me! It was a perfectly legitimate transaction for both parties!” he squawked, “And I wanted a new quill!”

“If the two of you are done, you might like to enter.” Deaton’s shiny bald head peeked out from the doors.

They jumped back in surprise, clutching onto each other. Deaton blinked owlishly at them before disappearing behind the door. They inched cautiously into the classroom, heads hung low in embarrassment.

Mr Potter was pacing further in, footsteps heavy on the tiled floor. He was wearing official Auror garb, having switched out from his usual plain black robes to a dark brown leather trench coat complete with a starched white shirt and a red striped tie. He looked up as they approached, eyeing them murderously.

_“You two are in a lot of trouble.”_

His quiet voice rumbled the walls in the empty classroom. The way he spoke… Stiles had never been so terrified in his life.

He knew fear of course, he had been frightened many times before. Like when Scott had fought in the sandpit, or when Derek had shoved him against the wall for not being able to keep his trap shut, or when Lydia had screamed at him for sneaking itching powder into Jackson’s underwear, but those times were nothing compared to the way Mr Potter had spoken from across the room. They were a fair distance apart but Stiles could feel the man’s displeasure creeping like an invisible hand around his neck.  
He looked away instinctively, unfathomable guilt eating away at him like his very existence was a mistake to the fabric of space and time. He hadn't meant to cause so much trouble, and upsetting his idol so terribly made him feel small and useless. For an inexplicable reason, he yearned for his mother’s embrace. She was always a steady shield ready to protect him, though she had been long gone from his life.

He highly doubted a few Chocolate Frog cards were worth all this trouble.

“Now, now, let’s introduce ourselves first.” Deaton said pleasantly, emerging from behind them and gestured, “This is Scott McCall, and over here we hav—“

“It wasn’t his fault Mr Potter! He didn’t know what he was doing!”

Stiles ducked his head even lower, Scott was as loyal as he was foolish. He chanced a look upon Mr Potter’s face and shrunk back even further. 

“Mr McCall,” Mr Potter stopped in his tracks, green eyes like lasers boring into his skull, “For your own good, I suggest you keep yourself very quiet when Professor Deaton is speaking.” With a few short strides Harry Potter was looming over them. He was a slight man, barely taller than Stiles, but his silhouette was a facade that hid powerful magic rumbling below his skin, like the rolling sounds of thunder in the distance; a promise of a storm.

Stiles refused to make any eye contact, having suddenly found his shoelaces to be the most interesting object worthy of his attention.

“Thank you Mr Potter. As I was saying, this is Stiles Stilinski” a large hand comes to rest on his shoulder.

The Auror leered down at him, "Yes, we've met briefly before haven't we? Now I see I shouldn't have been so lenient with you Mr Stilinski."

“Perhaps we can discuss that another time," Deaton hastened to say, "But for today we have some very bad news for one of you, or for the both of you, depending on how we perceive this issue.” he announced.

Their teacher always had an annoying habit of saying things out of context, even in everyday conversations. Stiles thinks it’s because the man enjoyed being an enigma, though personally he found it rather tiresome.

“This piece of information, be it good or bad, will have lasting consequences on Hogwarts, so please allow me your full attention.” He straightened, motioning to a large table where they gathered. “Five years ago, a prophetic scroll was given to me by a very powerful seer. I then entrusted it to my sister, who was working as an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries at the time.”

“Her goal was to find the owner of the prophecy without alerting the Ministry, for it wouldn't do anyone any good to send the wizarding world into another state of panic over false information. But in order for her to do so, she needed the Auror database to track down the name of the owner.”

 Mr Potter cleared his throat, “Which is how I came into possession of the prophecy. I ran it through all our records even checked it with the Traces for underaged wizards and witches, but nothing came up.”

“Five years ago was also the same year that the Order of the Phoenix reunited at the Quidditch World Cup Finals. I was still Head Auror then, and busy with ensuring that security went along smoothly. But my real purpose was to follow a lead on the owner of the prophecy, though it turned out to be a false trail.”

Stiles couldn't help but ask, “With all due respect sir, what has this got to do with us?”

“Nothing and everything, Mr Stilinski” came Deaton’s decidedly cryptic answer, “Not unless you can hasten a guess at the prophecy’s true master.”

“You mean it's one of us? You mean one of us is the owner? Does this have something to do with me being chosen for the Triwizard tournament?” Scott asked, leaning his whole body forward in curiosity.

“That… would certainly explain quite a few things Scott, but no. I’m afraid neither of you are the owner,” Deaton explained patiently, “well at least neither of your names were written on the prophecy.”  
He flickered his hand easily and a piece of parchment appeared on the table, “Here, perhaps it’s easier just to show you.”

They craned their necks as the professor rolled out the scroll, deftly letting its frail edges drape from one corner of the table to the other. There were complicated symbols lined around the borders, most of them were indistinguishable from where the paper had torn with age, but some had survived the test of time and even in the low light of the classroom, he could make out the faint traces of various ancient trees and flowers etched into the corners, with the different phases of the moon sketched delicately alternating between them.  
Right at the top and bottom of the page was an identical pair of wolf-shaped figures drawn to be running in opposite directions.  
His eyes glossed over them in wonderment before he finally settled onto the small cursive handwriting dotting the centre of the page. The words were so small and so intricate that it felt like it was from a different language but when he focused he could see the text appearing in his mind as if by magic.

           _Only brothers of moonlight can lift this curse of chaos,_  
           _Lest Hogwarts shall again be bathed in blood and remorse._  
           _One’s heart is sun-kissed, buried in the earth_  
           _The other one is lost, hidden deep under snow._  
  
           _Stay clear the hunter, for he shall betray_  
           _Your clearest intentions, to a lover’s dismay._  
           _Beware the trickster, in his final form_  
           _For he hides in plain sight, and knows not a soul._

           _Take heed young warrior, before you lose what you seek;_  
           _Soon one brother shall die, torn in the arms of another,_  
           _By the man who has cheated death, and shall seal the deal again._  
           _For love takes men out of monsters, and in turn makes monsters out of men._

           _Last but not least, hark o’er the cries!_  
           _From the Throne of Chaos, the Wolf King shall rise,_  
           _Power and glory as is his birthright._

           _But in turn, his brother shall perish_  
           _A mere phantom in the night._  
           _Consumed by Mother Moon in his eternal blight._    
  
Stiles frowned down at the parchment, reading the words under his breath and running it over and over again in his mind till he had memorised it. But none of it made any sense to him.  
As he gleamed further down, his lips began to quiver. Scott, having noticed this, reached out a hand to rest upon his. They both knew who the owner was. Deaton had been right in that uncanny way of his, the prophecy didn't belong to either of them.

No one knew those words, not even his own father could pronounce it flawlessly. There was only one other person who had knowledge of that name, the only one who had known him for what he truly was.

Below the lines there was a small full moon carved in lilac ink, the top and bottom crescent halves read the words:

 _For my Heaven and my Earth,  
__From my Love and my Death._

_Mieczyslaw_ _Stilinski_  

He traced the embossed letters of the name with a shaking finger, doing his best to blink away the tears. He doesn't dare let the thought flood his mind, doesn't dare let the nightmares come hurtling back lest they knock the wind from his lungs and drown him in despair once again as they had done once before, so many years ago.  

“Is there anything you two would like to tell us?” Deaton asked gently, rolling the parchment up carefully and tying it with a piece of green ribbon, “Anything you might know about this?”

“No, sir.” The words shoot out of his mouth before he can think better of it. “I have no idea what it means or where it could have come from.”

“Perhaps it was for my grandfather, he was Polish. He’s dead though, I think.” He stood stiffly beside Scott, who was so close that their shoulders brushed against each other and he leaned his body weight into the touch, a silent plea for support.

No one could know about this secret. It was private, it was his, and his alone.

If they found out, then they’ll soon find out about Scott, about Derek and the rest too. It was too big a risk to take.

“I still don’t see what any of this has got to do with us.” Scott complained, adopting a convincing tone of boredom, “Honest sir, we have our hands full with the tournament as it is. Shouldn't the Ministry be taking care of this?”

“We wouldn't be here if this was something we could take care of.” Harry shot back, “During the war, the Hall of Prophecy was destroyed and no known Seer had contacted the Department of Mysteries since then.” He removed his glasses and wiped them on his tie before putting them on again.

“ _Until you._ ”

Deaton waved his hand again and the parchment vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, “So we will ask you again for the last time Mr Stilinkski, what can you tell us about this prophecy?”

Stiles trembled, he wanted to tell the truth, he really did. But he didn't have control over his own mouth, as if an impenetrable force was willing him to keep silent. Scott’s hand gripped tighter onto his, his knuckles turning white at the pressure but it’s the only thing grounding him, keeping him away from breaking down into a panic attack. 

The silence chokes the room, only the soft falling of snow and ticking of a clock was a reminder that time was still moving forward.

Finally Mr Potter sighed, “I’m very disappointed in you both.”

He turned away from them, “I’ve already contacted the Ministry, and pulled in some favours but there’s only so many Aurors we can afford to send here."

"I also have reason to believe that some students in Hogwarts may have been recently afflicted with lycanthropy.”

Stiles did his best not to vomit, Scott’s grip was painful now, sharp nails barely grazing along his palm.

“This curse spoken in the prophecy only proves my suspicions. My own godson is half a werewolf so I understand there are certain… complications, but I expect anyone with working knowledge on the identities of these students to tell us what they know.”

“In the meantime,” Professor Deaton smiled brightly, a sharp contrast to his earlier mood “We’ll be coaching you for the rest of the Triwizard tournament.”

Stiles blinked in understanding. What their teacher had really meant to say was that the Aurors will be keeping a very close eye on their every move for the rest of the academic year, but he doesn’t point this out. 

“It’s not my first choice, but we’ve discussed it with Headmistress Mcgonagall and decided that this was for the best. The other champions are much older and wiser than you, so she doesn’t see a problem in giving you some leverage.We'll be teaching you a series of advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts spells. If and when the prophecy does come into fruition, then at least you’ll be better able to protect yourselves. ” Deaton grinned at them, no doubt plotting their demise in these supposed ‘lessons’ of his.

“And we don’t want this to leak out so whatever has been discussed today will remain here forever.” Mr Potter spoke, wandering further off to gaze outside the window. The soft flutter of snow had given way to the start of a heavy blizzard, the sharp white colour slowly eroding the pure pristine scenery outside.

“But for now, it's too late to do anything.” He waved a dismissive hand, “You may return to your dormitories until further notice. We will call upon you again at a later date.”

"...Did I not make myself clear?" Mr Potter stared from behind his glasses.

"Begone."

They scrambled out of the room.

===

  

That night Stiles tossed and turned in his sleep, he kept going over the day’s events in his mind, repeating the lines of the prophecy over and over again till it drove him to the brink of exhaustion. Yet they kept spinning and whirling around like bumper cars, collapsing against each other and knocking him back to consciousness every time he tried to enter the realm of sleep.  
Finally he gave up and headed up to the fireplace. Listening to the choppy waves of water outside the dungeon windows usually helped to calm him down, but tonight it just made him feel more restless. He circled the dimly lit room, debating his options before finally deciding that another afternoon pulling weeds for Professor Longbottom was worth a good night’s sleep. Herbology wasn't his favourite subject in the world but he enjoyed the professor’s company all the same.

He followed the long row of hanging green lights and tiptoed out the entrance. Leaning against the stonewalls, he listened out for teachers, or for Mrs Norris, but heard nothing. The corridors were clothed in tranquil silence.

He climbed higher up, emerging from out the cellar and found himself in the grand expanse of the Great Hall, the wider space made him feel like he could breathe again. He pondered where to go, sneaking into Scott’s dormitory was always an option. As much as the dungeons were his home, the cold nip in the air could get pretty nasty down there, and he found the Hufflepuff common room to be extremely warm and comfortable in contrast, especially in the harsh winters.

“Stiles?”

He froze, hoping against hope that it wasn’t Mr Potter. He’s had enough of disappointing his idol today.  
He could still have a chance if it was Deaton, the man was known for being lenient at the best of times, and completely apathetic at the worst. He’ll probably be punished with detention, the teachers always gave him those just for breathing, but he couldn't afford to lose anymore house points or risk Slughorn’s wrath. Which usually came in the form of a lecture where he would have to listen to the old man drone on and on for the entire afternoon, those were the absolute _worst_.

But it was neither of them, instead a familiar figure loomed ahead.

“What are you doing here?” It was Derek, his usual gruff voice sounded even grainier in the low light, “Return to your common room immediately.”

Stiles didn't know whether to be comforted or to be disappointed, so he settled on being accusatory.

“What about you? What are _you_ doing here?” 

“I’m on patrol”, he said like it like this was obvious, shining his prefect’s badge for emphasis. 

Stiles really didn't need this right now, the only time he sneaks out of the common room for a perfectly legitimate reason, he gets caught, and by Derek of all people! There were a hundred insults bubbling up his throat and a hundred more jokes at the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t think of anything to say that would get him out of this situation scot-free. 

Instead he just licks his lips nervously, looking around for an escape hatch, maybe he could make a run for it?

The prefect just stared at him, as if predicting his next move, “Don't even bother Stilinski, or would you care to lose _all_ your house points?”

Stiles sighed, remembering that his chances of outrunning a werewolf were zero to nil.

He decided that in this strange turn of events, perhaps honesty was his best bet.

“I couldn't sleep ok?” he huffed out in irritation. ”Had a bad dream, it was…” He hated showing vulnerability, debating the truth and deciding that for Derek, the lies were always much suited, “It was about aliens abducting me to the planet Tralfamador.”

Derek communicated disbelief through his eyebrows, as if the werewolf couldn't hear his heartbeat and smell through the obvious lie.

“You’ll certainly fit better there.” Came the sardonic reply.

“Wouldn't I? Well, a boy can only dream.” Stiles replied, dripping with sarcasm, “Wow I feel so much better now! Gee thanks Derek, you’re always such a source of comfort in my hour of need, what ever would I do without you? Probably keel over and die from a lack of your dry wit in my system.” He mocked in a falsetto.

Derek snorted but turned away from him, walking back the way he came with nothing but the soft orange glow of a lamp to light his way.

“Come walk with me.”

At first, Stiles thinks he might have misheard and he’s tempted to ignore the command, what with Derek’s terrible attitude, but he had nowhere else to go. He paused for a while longer before following behind Derek cautiously.

“Won’t the other prefects be on duty? Or is this part of your elaborate trap to get me in even more trouble?”

“Yes.” 

 _Fine,_ Stiles thought narrowing his eyes on the older boy’s back as he trailed behind, _two could play this game._  

“My, my, Derek Hale, Gryffindor’s very own golden boy, encouraging wayward teens to trapeze the halls after curfew. What would Headmistress Mcgongall say I wonder. Oh, how the mighty house of Godric Gryffindor has fallen!”

“Stiles.” Derek eyeballed him in exasperation but kept walking ahead. He hadn’t risen to the bait and it made Stiles feel like an idiot for trying so hard.

“Fine. Have it your way then.” He mumbled under his breath, determined that he would keep his mouth shut for the remainder of the journey and then overruling his decision less than a minute later, “Where are we going?”

Derek doesn't deem his question worthy of a response, just kept walking at a steady pace as if he was humouring Stiles while his sleep deprived mind stumbled along through the castle. Even though he had walked these halls everyday for the past four years, they always looked so different in the night. Not scary per say, as he had gotten used to the murkiness of the dungeons, but it still held a mysterious and playful air that was teasing him into a folly of his own making.

The prefect finally stopped at a large room, reaching down on the cupboard to pick out what seemed to be a tin mug. Stiles noted the large shadows of various cooking utensils hanging on the walls and a large boiler by the side. They were in the kitchens.

He glanced around nervously, remembering the debacle with its residents the last time he was here, “Won’t the elves mind?”

“I help them out sometimes.” Derek declared, as if that was supposed to explain everything.

As the other boy rummaged the shelves for unknown ingredients, Stiles fidgeted in the corner. He wonders what he meant by helping the elves but he doesn’t ask, doesn't want to pry for he knew that way led to madness, especially with Derek, who could circle around questions expertly like a seasoned captain out at sea navigating through a storm. And he often did this with questions he did not wish to answer. He had it down to a science and Stiles knew he would only end up wearing himself out at Derek’s mastery over monosyllabic answers, he’s been through this routine so many times that he had it memorised it by heart. 

So no, he doesn't ask, doesn't pry, he knows what their boundaries are and he doesn't want to cross them. Not tonight, not when this fragile semblance of camaraderie still existed between them, something that was unthinkable in the day but came so easily under the embrace of night.

 _He will only tell you what he wants you to know, so don't get too close_ he reminded himself chastely _you’ll just end up hurt again, remember what happened to Lydia_ he chided, _stop embarrassing yourself._  

But his traitorous mind had already ran ahead and left him in the dust. What else didn't he know? He wondered, what other tidbit of information was Derek hiding? What kind of face did he make when no one was watching? How could he communicate with only his eyebrows? What did he look like when he smiled, a real smile not the permanent fed-up smirk he wears like an amour. What did Derek Hale look like when he doesn't have to act like the whole world had betrayed him? 

The whole school had known what happened to the Hales of course, the rumours had spread like wildfire. Some pyromaniac entered the house at the dead of night and the place had exploded. It made headline news on the Daily Prophet in the morning after.

The first time he sees Derek was two years after the incident. It was his first day at Hogwarts, heading towards the Great Hall for the Sorting Ceremony. He had been a wide-eyed and innocent First Year then.  
A long way away from home and Scott’s presence was the only bright spot in this foreign place. The castle was beautiful no doubt, but it was also tall and imposing. After what he had been through, it felt like an elaborate prison for the next five years of his life.

He became even more inconsolable when the Sorting Hat put him in a different house than his best friend, and he was forced to sit amongst strangers for the rest of the evening. While everyone else enjoyed the Great Feast, he slipped out into the cold night air, feeling miserable and wishing he could take the boat back across the lake, back to the train platform and then back to civilization where his father would be waiting for him with open arms.

Instead he resigned himself to his fate and plopped down on the stone steps, feeling so sorry for himself that he didn't even notice another boy was there, leaning against the cobbled wall not far from where he was sitting. He was a rather handsome chap and Stiles recognised him from earlier, shuffling into the school amongst the other First Years, though he looked much older and disheveled than the rest. But Stiles wasn’t one to judge, people still called him a fetus and he had the baby face to back it up.

He called out, “ _Hey you're not suppose to be here you know!”_

It was hypocritical of course, since they were both there, but Stiles had learnt very early on in the sandbox that in terms of intimidation, it was always better to make the first move.

The other boy hadn’t looked at him, hadn’t even blinked, just stared sadly across the lake, like he wished he were a thousand miles away too.

Stiles squinted into the night, trying to garner a better view.

Compared to his small and slight stature, the boy was noticeably much bigger than him, even at this distance. He had dark hair and a strong jawline, his eyes were downcast but shone a brilliant shade of grey-green-blue.

He looked big in a way that Stiles knew bullies do, like he could haul his smaller frame over the waters of the lake if he wanted to. But somehow and in someway, his posture was wrong, shoulders slumped low and his wide back was crestfallen.

Though the two of them looked so different, they might have at least one thing in common, Stiles thought.

 _“Hey, you alright?”_ He called out again, trying to sound comforting and non-judgmental at the same time.

_“You miss your mum and dad don't ya? Yea, me too. But it’ll be ok I think, you’ll see. This place won’t be so bad once we get used to it, the food’s good at least. Better than the microwavable dinners I’m used to anyway.”_

The boy had turned then, scowled at him with so much poison, so much vehemence in just a glance, that it made Stiles shudder and beg to ask what he done to deserve it.

Then he was gone, disappearing off the side of the castle walls and into the darkness. 

It wasn’t until much later that he figured out it had been Derek Hale he saw that night, and then he realized how _stupid_ he was to have mistaken him for a First Year, and how much _stupider_ and incredibly _insensitive_ he had been to say those things. Curse him and his uncontrollable tongue!

But by then it was too late to apologise, and Derek hadn't made any indication that they knew each other from that night, in fact he hadn’t made any indication that he knew who anyone was. 

For the first few months, he didn't talk at all, behaved even more of a ghost than the _actual_ ghosts did, lurking like a shadow from one classroom to another. None of the teachers called upon him and none of his classmates ever talked to him. Even so, people were attracted to him like bees were to honey. _The return of the tragic hero_ , they had called him, which Stiles didn't know whether he wanted to laugh or cry at. He didn't know who or what Derek Hale was, but he knew he certainly wasn’t any of those things.

Of course the only reason Stiles had any working knowledge of Derek’s psyche was because he had been obsessed with the boy in his first year. He’s almost too ashamed to admit it now, how desperate he was, following the older boy like an invisible parasite; committing his clockwork schedule to memory, catching glimpses from behind pillars, studying up on all his classes and reading the books he picked up in his spare time.  
He wouldn't call it stalking per say, he had just wanted to say he was sorry for being so blunt on that first day, hoping that the apology will absolve his guilt somewhat. It had then somehow snowballed into an avalanche of a fixation that had Stiles questioning his own sanity, justifying his fervent passion with an excuse of doing the right thing. _Oh, dear irony._

But every time he attempts to approach, to apologise, Derek always slips from his grasp, darting and in and out from his peripheral field of vision before disappearing completely out of sight, with just the gentle sway of his black robes fading down the corner. It was like trying to catch the moon, the impossibility of it stunned him.

He gave up soon after that, it was already a spectacular feat for his energetic mind to be so focused on a single person for so long after all, and he almost forgot about it soon after. Until the night Scott had been bitten by a rogue werewolf, then everything suddenly made sense.

Stiles remembers the day fondly, they had just started second year then. It was to be the very first in a long line of times, that Derek would grab him by the collar and shove him up the nearest flat surface. Sometimes it was a wall, sometimes it was a pillar and other times he had been lifted clean off the floor, his feet dangling high up in the air.

It had helped him arrive at the terrible conclusion as to why he had been so persistent in his first year. Simply put, he didn't want to be hated by Derek. Anyone else was perfectly fine, in fact Stiles is almost used to it by now, welcomes it even, as any proud member of their House would, but not Derek. Never Derek.

He doesn’t know why though and his first instinct was to deny it, he was a big fan of ignoring the problem until it came back to bite him in the arse, which it evidently had in this case. The problem also happened to grow furry ears and sharp claws every month, threatened to kill his best friend and himself on multiple occasions and then, promptly welcomed three Frankenstein werewolves into the world of the supernatural.

He thinks it should bother him more that the object of his obsession was friends with the boogeyman, that he was running with wolves like kids ran with kites, that he’s risking his life and his humanity on a daily basis, but he’s more bothered by how it doesn't bother him as much as it should.

“Here." Derek pours hot liquid into the mug and passes it to him "Drink it.” 

He reaches out carefully and their fingers touch, the lingering contact stuttering his heart, but Stiles blames static electricity and doesn't let himself dwell on it.

“What is it?” he sniffed the mixture, it was fragrant, a scent of something citrusy and warm.

“Poison.” Derek deadpans, before sighing “It's a special blend of tea, just drink it Stiles.”

“What’s in it?” He asked again suspiciously, not wanting to back down even though he knows in his heart Derek would never harm him, that it had been Derek who protected him from Scott on that very night two years ago.  
But this is what they always do, the banter, the fighting, the plotting against each other, because Stiles doesn't know what else there is, but he knows that with Derek, it was better than nothing, better than ignoring each other and better than pretending they had nothing in common.

“Honey, cloves, Velarian sprigs….”

“So it is poison!” Stiles gasped but he took a sip anyway.

It tasted sweet and slid thickly down his throat, leaving a heady warmth in his chest. It was good, and he took another sip greedily, closing his eyes with contentment and humming in pleasure. It reminded him of the hot toddies his Mum used to make when he was sick, that was until his Dad found out why his secret stash of gin and tonic was disappearing so quickly. They had a tremendous row then, with him threatening to arrest her in assisting a minor in underage drinking, and she had retaliated by knocking his head over with a spatula.Then they had kissed and that was the end of that.

He smiled at the memory, it wasn't always smooth sailing but they were his parents and they had been happy then.

When his eyes fly open again, Derek is staring at him. Just staring at him from across the room like he was some kind of fly on the wall and he tamps down the angry blush he knows is spreading across his cheeks. He stared back in challenge, daring him to speak, to make a nasty remark or another lame joke.

But he doesn’t, Derek just keeps staring at him. He looked away quickly, not wanting to be trapped in a staring contest, of which the other boy would inevitably win.

He could hear scuttling on the floor but tried not to focus his overly imaginative mind on the array of creepy crawlies that could be lurking in dark corners of the kitchens, but he needed to focus on something, anything, before the silence made him braver, before it gave him reasons to share more than what he wanted to, more than Derek would ever be able to reciprocate.

So he reluctantly swiveled his attention back to the only other person in the room, who was still staring at him with an intensity like Stiles had done him a great injustice.

 _He looks healthier now,_ Stiles thinks absently, noticing the dull pink tinge on the older boy’s cheekbones, the slight stubble and the too thin lips. Derek always had a big frame for his age but by now there was definitive muscle mass hidden under those layers of clothing and Stiles wondered briefly when he had the time to work out and how he managed to fill out so quickly, but then chalked it up to werewolf metabolism. It was so _unfair_.

Meanwhile, the fates had not been so kind to Stiles. He had certainly grown taller since their first meeting and was almost the same height as Derek now, but he was still skinny and knobbly-kneed, his height only made him look like an over-stretched pizza dough. He never grew out of the baby face, looking every bit the bairn he’d always been. It had helped him get out of trouble for awhile, before the teachers quickly grew disillusioned, then his face had been the poster boy for troublemaking ever since.

He takes another sip of the tea, watching Derek watching him. 

A sudden weird sensation overcomes him, like someone was knocking on his chest. Just a little pressure, just painful enough to be discomforting. But it was a good kind of tug, like the soreness of limbs after long exercise, or the bitter taste of cough drops. It made him less like a balloon floating in space and more like a solid mass grounded on the earth, more like himself than he had felt in a long time. He doesn't know what it is, he wonders if Derek feels the same way, or if he ever felt as lost as he did.

The tea had gotten cold and he took a last sip before placing it in a sink, waving his hands easily for a simple cleaning spell before placing it on a rack.

Derek tracks the movement like a hawk. Stiles would be more unsettled if he wasn't so used to his non-verbal communications, à la eyebrows, glares, stares and crossed arms.

“So Tralfamador huh?” Derek asks, after the silence had dragged on for too long.

“How was it.” He doesn't wait for an answer though, just gingerly picked up the lamp and slowly stepped out the entryway, turning around slightly to wait for him.

Stiles bit out a laugh, all the tension leaving his body. Trust Derek to ask a question like it was a statement. He pushed himself off the wall and followed nonetheless, making sure there was a safe distance between them.

“They did human experiments, turned the subjects into animals and put all of us in a zoo where they observed us. I got turned into a zebra, with stripes and everything! Got a giraffe for a roommate too, it was pretty cool. Till the aliens went bonkers on us…” Then he told Derek all sorts of wacky adventures he had with his giraffe roommate, some of them were true from what he’d actually remembered, but he made up the rest as they slowly journeyed their way back to the cellar.

When they finally reached the dungeons he was dead on his feet, swaying slightly with the effort to keep himself upright.  Derek doesn't say anything, just places a firm hand at the base of his neck to steady him. Stiles wants to lean into the touch so badly, eyes drooping slightly but he’s afraid he’ll never be able to let go. So he whispers the password quickly and steps into the common room.

He holds the door ajar, shifting his feet tiredly. Derek lets go and takes a step backwards but he doesn't leave, so Stiles is the first one to give in, as he always is.

“So this has been fun.” He scratched the back of his neck, feeling the warmth of Derek’s palm that had been there just a second ago, “If I knew sneaking out past curfew was going to be such a lovely experience I would have done it earlier and way more often.”

The older boy just leers at him, “Go back to sleep you fool.”

He rolled his eyes, “Yea, yea.” He’s halfway through the door when he turns and pursed his lips. The Gryffindor was still watching him. 

“And Derek?” He wanted to make a joke, pass it off as a moment of weakness but the night feeds him bravery he never had on his own. Derek just keeps on looking at him, half in expectation, half in his usual unreadable emotion.

“Thanks.” He chocked out, before bounding into the common room and locking the door behind him hastily. He pretends he can’t hear the words echoing behind him, pretends that he doesn’t repeat it as a mantra before falling back to sleep.

They never speak of it again, never mention it in the harsh eyes of daylight where they went back to purposefully ignoring each other in the halls.  

_“Good night Stiles.”_

  


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a dramatic increase in rating lol. Nothing really happens though. I wanted a fluffier ending but couldn't fit it into the timeline so I had to shift some things around, oh well.  
> Hope you enjoy anyways :)
> 
> Rating and tags have been updated for this chapter. 
> 
> WARNING: This chapter contains the following:
> 
> 1) Malia Hale/Stiles Stilinski  
> 2) Violence and feral behaviour  
> 3) Non-consensual acts of a sexual nature

* * *

  _I have whitened these canines just for you._

_You! Little girl, the one in the red hood._

 

**13 December 2019**

 

“No.”

Lydia doesn't even spare him a glance as he approaches, grabbing her books from the table and making her way out of the Great Hall. He raced to catch up with her.

“I haven’t even said anything!”

“Regardless, the answer is still no.” she flips a delicate lock of strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder and the scent of flowery perfume wafted through the air. Stiles sniffed then sighed in content, _why did girls always smell so good?_

“Fine, then who are you—“

“Jackson” she interrupted. Stiles tsked under his breath, of all the people in the world she could have picked, she decided to settle on the worst wax figure of a human being.

“Lydia," he whined, "he’s just using you.”

“Well so am I.” She stated matter-of-factly as they cut through the Quad. He jogged faster to catch up with her.

 

For the life of him, he couldn't fathom how Lydia Martin could ever have use of a lesser ape like Jackson Whittermore. He had nothing against the guy okay? But… fine, he hated his guts.

Ever since the first day of Hogwarts, Jackson had been beastly towards them; making fun of Stiles and showing up Scott like it was his favourite pastime. But he was popular, the typical blonde haired blue-eyed mainstream prep that people tended to accept naturally and without question. Then he was made a Gryffindor and they were all throwing themselves at his feet; Lydia included.  
Stiles on the other hand, had to fight tooth and nail just put himself on the radar, and even then his presence was tolerated at best. He learnt quickly that if favour could not be given freely then it would have to be created; with his own hands, in the best way he knew how: pranks, tricks and mischief galore. They started out as 'accidents' at first; a well-timed whoopee cushion here and a misplaced air horn there, but then he made a special concoction of pepper spray he liked to call ' _The Eazy Sneezy'_ and placed a satchel of the stuff in the Gryffindor common room _._ After that things really began to roll.

He finally found an outlet to put his vivid imagination to good use, and Scott had been there with him every step of they way. Stiles was better at the plotting and the scheming but he was clumsy as he was spastic, there was no way he could pull off half the stunts on his own. It was Scott who had the steady hands to put theory into practice and the one who had the loyalty to see it through, while Stiles stood outside to keep watch.  
Even before his wolfy encounter the boy was cool as dirt and hard as steel when he needed to be, and Stiles had seen it; watched with fascinated fraudulence as the goofy grins and that careless, easy-going attitude melted away into sharp edges and hot iron. He marvelled at the discovery, because Scott was just as mad as he was, mad at a world that couldn't see past his inhalers or his willing smiles, that deep down he was about as easy-going as molten lava, brazed only by a cast steel anvil and a heavy hammer to be anything close to malleable. 

Apart, they would have made natural disasters but together they were more stable, Stiles to fan the flames while Scott cooled the kiln; they had each other's back. So naturally people began to drift towards them, like collecting bits and bobs, their little circle of friends expanded. And that circle had somehow grown to include Jackson Whittermore. Over the years his presence grew on them like a mold, tolerated but not welcomed, spreading like an infection festering at the foundations.

When Lydia and Jackson had gotten together, Stiles had accepted it just as easily, a proverbial splinter that had dug below the epidermal layer of his skin and was now lodged so deep into the flesh that he could no longer take it out. Everyone had known it was bound to happen, it was just a question of when their schedules aligned, and by then his crush on Lydia had demolished somewhat, leaving only a vacant derelict house ready to be torn down. But still, it had been a shock when the bulldozers trudged in guns ablazing, aimed at his fragile heart and he never really forgave Jackson for it. 

 

"But it’s Jackson, I mean _Jackson._ No offence Lydia but dude’s a wanker, a selfish, egocentric, emotionally stunted wanker!” He waved his arms up and down wildly,  “Not even Lahey likes him, and the boy eats sunshine and rainbows for breakfast. I saw him talking to a tarantula once, what is up with that guy anyway?”

“And _… “_ Then Stiles lowered his voice and glanced around conspiratorially, “ _He’s a Gryffindor_.”

“So?” Lydia scoffed, barely breaking a sweat after sprinting across the foyer, “Scott’s a Hufflepuff.”

Stiles panted alongside her but considered the thought carefully, she had a good point there.

Finally he dusted an imaginary speck in the air and replied, “Touché.”

 

“Anyway you deserve better,” he said seriously, or as seriously as he could while scampering after her, almost tripping over his long robes in the process.

She was small but moved like a mini whirlwind, the horde of students parting like the red sea to let her pass.

 

He opened his mouth, preparing for the beginning of a very long rant as he always did when Lydia deigned his presence with any kind of response, if you considered ignoring someone a response, “You’re a goddess Lydia, how you stoop to walk amongst us mortals is an outrage amongst the gods! Your eyes like jewels cast from unicorn blood, your hair burning like a phoenix reborn, oh Lydia fair art thou young maiden, what I would give to embrace your—“

“That’s sweet Stiles,” she interrupted again, stopping suddenly to smile up at him before patting him lightly on the cheek, “But you’re a little bit biased sugar plum. We can’t all live on illusions you know.” 

She flashed her eyes at him. “The point is, I’m not an angel, and neither is he.” 

“So stop judging us.” She turned away from him, continuing on her path as if she had never stopped.

 

He wanted to argue, to make her see reason, but whatever comeback dies in this throat. She’d hit the nail on the head again as she often did, and he felt naked in front of her. She continued traipsing down the corridors and Stiles watched her go, no longer spurred with the need to pursue her.   
He sighed involuntarily and scratched the back of his head. He thought about what he could say to change her mind but whatever debate he’d start, Lydia always had a ready rebuttal at hand.

Most people had grown tired of his mindless chatter, and even Scott mostly picked and chose what he wanted to hear, but only Lydia had been smart and fast enough to process his rapid fire stream of consciousness, siphoning out the useless information and tossing it back with twice the force, often using his own logic against him.

They were both lancers of wordplay, adorning scything wit like a shield, the only way they knew how to protect themselves. Though Stiles was quicker at drawing his sword, Lydia’s jabs were measured, calculative, so that she knew when to push for what she wanted but also when to pull herself away to meet everyone else’s expectations.

He doesn't like it; doesn't see the point in trying to please a false mob that preferred pretty lies over the ugly truth, but he knows he can’t change her, though he wants to.

That the only person who could, didn't want to, and had no trouble meeting everyone else’s expectations of being a complete dickhead.

As her small figure rounded the bend she turned to yell at him, her voice echoing down the hallway “You can’t choose the people to fall in love with Stiles!

_"You should know this better than anyone by now.”_

“And Stiles?” she called out again, sweet cherry red lips curling into a sly smile.

“Yes?” He called back yearningly, hoping she’d reconsidered.

“You’re going to be late to Potions.” 

He cursed before taking off.

 

She was right, _again_.

Slughorn was less than thrilled at his tardiness but had otherwise ignored him. Scott glanced over with curiosity but didn’t pry.

They prepared the last of the ingredients in comfortable silence, before finally adding the finishing touch to the Girding Potion they had been tasked to make. They knew that Stiles would share anything and everything so long as he wanted to, and if he didn't, then he probably had a very good reason. Stiles was for once thankful for Scott's tact, these moments of good common sense were rare but his best friend sure knew when to save it for the times that mattered.

After class, he was forced to confront Slughorn. He didn't get a detention but almost wished he did. At least during detentions he was doing some form of menial labour, which meant something to occupy his dangerously wandering mind. Not standing around twiddling his thumbs as Slughorn droned on and on about school rules and the value of respect, as he currently doing.

Stiles’ mind wandered, and he recalled Lydia’s words.

What had she meant when _he_  of all people should know about choosing who to love? How could he possibly know anything about that? 

Stiles frowned, he was as single as a queen-sized bed and not from a lack of trying, but every maiden he’d had the pleasure of dating was somehow convinced that his heart belonged to another, blaming it on _women’s intuition or_ whatever that was, as if it made any sense. 

 

Scott had comforted him with his _Bitches-be-crazy-huh?_ speech every time, tiding over each heartbreak with endless rounds of wizard’s chess and hatching nefarious pranks they could use against Jackson _bloody_ Whittermore. 

 

===

  

It was dusk by the time Professor Slughorn finally let him out of the office and Stiles was on his way to the Great Hall for an early dinner when Scott tackled him from across the hallway.

 

“Dude! I have exciting news!” the Hufflepuff gushed, giddy with happiness. Stiles had a headache just from watching him jump up and down like a yoyo.

He pulled out his wand from his back pocket hurriedly, “What, what happened this time? Is someone dead or dying? Because I am seriously not in the mood for any supernatural shenanigans right now. Please tell me no one is—“

“Allison and I finally did it!” Scott blurted out, barely able to contain himself.

“Oh...  _Oh_." Stiles scratched the back of his head and stuffed his wand back into his bag before nodding with approval "Oh yea? Hey, good for you man.”

He paused before ginning mischievously, “Did what exactly?”

“Was it this?” Stiles shoved his middle finger obscenely through an empty circle made up of his thumb and index finger, “Or this?” He balled his hand tightly and made a rude up and downward motion with his fist.

“Ew Stiles, stop that!” Scott protested in disgust, “And no! …Not yet at least.”

He blushed to his roots before whispering, “We kissed.”

Stiles wanted to laugh, why were people in love always so adorably annoying? He wanted to take Scott down a peg or two but just ended up rolling his eyes in affection, “Merlin, haven’t you guys been going steady for two years? And the furthest you’ve gone is kissing? Sloths have moved faster than this. You know what? Why don’t you wait till she gets arthritis in her hands and cataracts in her eyes, then you can give her a ride on your wheelchair.”

“You really think we’ll be together that long?” Scott asked wistfully.

Stiles grimaced in disgust, trust Scott to focus on that point.

“I asked her out to Yule and she said yes.” Scott continued, probably already imaging the two of them dancing together in an elaborate ballroom and picking out children’s names from a hat.

Stiles was happy for his best friend, he really was, but then he remembered what Lydia had said and his face fell.

           _Stop judging us._  

 

“How did it go with Lydia?” Scott asked cautiously, sensing his discomfort.

He shook his head sadly.

Scott elbowed him in the ribs with an encouraging smile, “Don't worry I haven’t forgotten about you pal, there’s still one more candidate in the running and I’ll direct her your way.” 

Stiles perked up at the new information “Who is she?” 

“That’s a secret for me to know and for you to find out. And who knows, maybe after Yule she'll show you some tricks of her own, if you know what I mean.” Scott winked at him, wriggling his eyebrows suggestively.

 

For as long as Stiles has known him, his best friend could never keep a secret longer than he could keep his cactus alive, which is why he given it to Stiles as a birthday present. So he grinned and decided he would find out sooner or later anyway.

“Yea, yea you’re probably right. Who cares about Lydia anyway? Girl’s got no taste, none at all!” 

They both knew this was untrue of course, Lydia had the best taste in everything, from shoes to clothes to study notes, she had to have the best in everything; well everything save for male companions. Stiles laughed and slung an arm over his shoulders, demanding for details about Scott's date with Allison but Lydia’s words kept repeating like a yarn at a spinning wheel, wheedling round and round in circles that weren’t going anywhere.

 

           _You can’t choose the people to fall in love with Stiles._

 

* * *

   **18 December 2019**

  

“You smell sad.”

 

He looked up briefly but then cast his eyes away again, gazing across the lake with a firm pout docked across his mole speckled face.

Then unable to hold his curiosity for a second longer, he asked “How can sadness even have a smell? What does it smell like anyway?”

Malia shrugged, “Bad.”

He stared up at her incredulously, “Are you saying I stink?”

She grinned cheekily and nodded.

 

“Way to beat a guy when he’s down." He replied grumpily, turning away from her

"Well, at least you’re not the only one today.” He propped his chins on his knees and sulked, feeling his mood blackening to match the colour of the Dark Lake. 

She had been right though, the holidays were always a bad time for him. They reminded him of his Dad, and the list of reasons he couldn't go back to visit. 

Christmas in Hogwarts was always a magical day and one that he looked forward to, but this year the longing for family had been almost overwhelming. It also didn't help when he found out that every girl he knew had already been invited to attend the Yule Ball and he cursed his confounded procrastination.

Going alone was always an option and one that he would have chosen gladly, had Jackson _bloody_ Whittermore not been teasing him for the entire week with dull quips,

‘ _Cant get a date Stilinski? Well, no one likes garbage do they?’_ And calling him stupid names like _‘Lonely Loverboy Stilinski’ or_  “ _Boy Hero, Rejecto Stiles!_ ’

They weren’t even creative. He sulked even more, shaking his head dejectedly. What did Lydia ever see in him? 

 

Malia came closer to sit next to him, sidling up to his side so that they were elbow to thigh close. The brusqueness of her movements nearly caused him to topple over and he grumbled his disapproval. 

She ignored him and lifted one arm around his shoulder, her hand stopped at the base of his neck, smoothing the prickly short hair there with the pads of her fingers.

With one firm and final motion, she squeezed down.

Stiles whizzed under the pressure, sighing with punctuated lungs, it felt familiar but foreign at the same time, and he’s tempted to throw her off but then relaxed into the hold despite himself.

The gesture felt weirdly intimate, almost as if he was committing some grave wickedness, though he couldn’t possibly fathom a reason for it.

He leaned back, eyes closed in contentment. She leaned in to rest her head at the base of his neck, her deep breaths tickling his clavicle. He half listened to the quiet buzz of cicadas in the willows, the soft whirring of dragonflies over the surface of the lake, and the chirping of crickets hidden in the grass. The constant idyllic rhythm of nature was intoxicating, lulling him to a faint slumber before Malia's voice jolts him awake again.

 

“Come vith me.”

 

“Huh? Wha—“ He barely registers her words before he’s nodding off again.

“To Yule.” She rolled her eyes impatiently, waiting for him to catch up.

He snapped awake, “What? Wait... What?” He blinked stupidly, not understanding. 

 

Then he turned to her, completely flabbergasted “You can't just ask me that out of the blue! And also, don't you know you’re not supposed to ask me? You’re suppose to wait for me to ask!”  

 

“Girls don’t just ask out guys to the ball!" He wrung his hands in frustration, "There’s a whole social order to these things, not that I would know anything about it, but still!” He failed indignantly, doing backstrokes with his arms waving wildly in the air.

Malia stared at him like he had just sprouted wings then shrugged indifferently.

“Dat’s stupid.” She stood up abruptly and proceeded to take off her black boots, peeling away the thick socks from the tip of her toes.

“Also sexist.”

 

Stiles frowned before scratching his jaw in contemplation, what she said was not untrue.

He honestly hadn’t thought about it before, especially since Hogwarts was so steeped in culture and history that everyone usually just accepted the status quo without fuss. It probably hadn't reached the Wizarding World yet but this was still the twenty-first century after all, and Stiles was as sick of gender stereotypes as he was of potato smileys; it had served the world well for its short period of existence, but there comes a time when it must be struck off the menu. Besides, after a while those smiles looked more patronising with every bite

The only thing he couldn't believe was that it took a third party observer like Malia to point this out to him. 

 

“Huh. Yea, you’re probably right.” He could give credit when credit was due and she did make sense.

She smirked and dipped her toes into the water.

“Also, I did not ask.” she continued, her accent placing a heavy emphasis on the harsh ‘k’ sound.

She stuck her index finger at him “You”, then she bent her thumb back to refer to herself,  “Are coming vith me.”

“Dat is all.” 

 

She finished with a triumphant smile, placing her hands on her hips and tipping out her chin in defiance. As if Stiles was suicidal enough to argue with her. It’s only now that he realises she’s half naked, standing knee-deep in the water.

She had taken off her black shoes and tights during their conversation, leaving only the red dress top of the Durmstrang uniform to barely cover her upper thighs.

The images are assaulting his brain before he can stop them.

 

“Indecent exposure!” He hollered, backing away hurriedly.

“Indecent exposure over here!” he repeated ever louder, scrambling to his feet. “Help! Someone, send help!”

She laughed at his antics, collecting water in her hands with a sneaky sideway smirk plastered on her face.

Stiles eyed the movement warily.

“Don’t you da— Mhm!”

 

Too late, he spit out the mucky green water and wiped his wet face on his sleeve, quickly shucking off his white collared shirt and slipping out of his shoes before diving headfirst into the murky waters.

 

It was cold, frigid even, but he felt alive.

Despite the sting, he forced his eyes open, reaching out eagerly with one hand and enclosing his fingers around a thin ankle.

With a firm grip, he pulled down as hard as he could.

Malia cried out as she sunk into the shallow depths, drinking water as she kicked his hand away in slow motion. She resurfaced soon after, splaying her arms and legs violently, splashing chunks of water everywhere.

 

Stiles watched with deep satisfaction.  

 

“Cheating!” She gasped, swiping away strands of seaweed hair stuck to her face.

He laughed at her drowned rat appearance, running a hand down his face. The cold water was refreshing, and suddenly he felt too awake, too big to be contained within his body. His limbs hummed with energy, muscles loose and limber, ready for fun, ready to play. 

 

“Not my fault!” He howled, pointing at her and laughing.“And you started it! Next time you should— Ugh!”

He fell for her surprise attack once again, the bitter taste of mucky water splashed into his mouth before he had a chance to escape.

From a good distance away she cackled, ducking behind a nearby boulder for cover.

”Why you…” He muttered, shaking his fist up in the air. “Come back here you! This is war, you hear me? War!”

Malia screamed out, laughing as she waded further away from him.

 

But he was faster and he grabbed her from behind, arms fastened tight around a slender waist before hauling her above the water. She snorted and kicked her legs like a newborn foal, struggling to escape from his grasp before he finally let go and dunked her head under the water. Then it was her turn.

Stiles dived further into the water to defend himself as best as he could, but to no avail. 

 

They continued their playful banter for a while longer, thrashing around in the muddy waters before the sun soon disappeared from the horizon and they were forced to return to shore. They put their clothes back on hastily, shivering the whole time. The pair huddled for warmth as they made their way back to the castle, stopping at an open fire basket to heat up their hands.

There’s a amiable silence between them and Stiles feels comforted by her presence. He senses the sadness seeping away with the water dripping down from his body and the quiet calmness sloshes at his heart. Not that he would ever admit it out loud.

 

“So you vill come? To Yule.”

 

He looks up at her, surprised to hear a hint of vulnerability in her low whisper.

The crackling light of the fire cast a soft orange glow on her exposed skin, she shivered and he placed a hand on her shoulder, admiring the smooth skin underneath his fingertips. He turned to face her, but his view was obscured by a thick layer of her long hair, effectively hiding her expression from view.

They hadn’t known each other for very long and she’ll be gone by the summer holidays, Stiles thought sadly.

But the one thing he definitively knew about her was that she was strong. She was both mentally and physically stronger than Stiles could ever hope to be, and it made him feel bad to think about it. _I don’t deserve her_. 

Other than Allison and Lydia, she seemed to be the only girl who wasn't actively angry with him, or convinced of his idiocy. They got along at least, and he enjoyed her company, no matter how brief it was going to be.

He hesitated, feeling suddenly shy and tongue-tied.  _Agh teenagers and their stupid hormones._

 

“Yes.”

 

Her face was still hidden from view but Stiles could still see her smile in his mind’s eye.

They lay there basking in each other for just a while longer before slowly heading back inside, hands linked together as they climbed up the stone steps into the Entrance Hall.

 

           _You should know this better than anyone by now._  

 

Their little encounter by the lake was cute and all but by the time they parted and Stiles had returned to the Slytherin common room, he had missed dinner, smelled like seaweed, and with every step he took his shoes squelched in reverence like he was stomping on a never-ending line of squeaky toys.

All he wanted to do was head straight to his room, grab a change of clothes, and take the longest shower of his life.

He had no such luck however when he spotted Albus and Allison chatting animatedly on the couch.

 

He ignored them and made a beeline to the boys' dormitory but she immediately threw him a knowing look when he walked past, her dark eyes shining mischievously and a wide toothed smile begun to spread across her dimpled cheeks.

Everything began to click into place. Malia approaching him was no happy accident but a deviant orchestration by the most cruel pair of masterminds.

 _This proves it_ , he thinks morosely, _happy couples love to stick their noses in their single friends’ lives, no matter if it's only for their own sick twisted entertainment._

He had no doubt that Allison and Scott were in cahoots as his wingmen and he pitied poor Malia for being such a willing victim to their machinations.

 

He's determined to avoid all and any eye contact, bounding up the stairs two at a time when Albus calls out after him.

“Whew!” the Third Year exclaimed, scrunching his face in disgust, “You smell awful! Like rotten eggs that got flushed down the toilet awful.” 

"Stiles, did you get hexed _again?_

Beside him Allison laughed in poorly disguised glee, making loud smooching noises and smacking her lips.

 

“Thank you Albus,” He called back hotly, trudging up the stairs “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day!”

  

* * *

**25th December 2019**

 

He hadn’t planned to go, he _really_ hadn't.

 

He was too broke to afford formal clothes and he couldn't dance for shite. The patent leather boots he had on were borrowed from Professor Longbottom, and they were one or two sizes too small for his giant feet.

The only thing he’d wanted to do that evening was to celebrate Christmas with his friends, fill his belly with good food and watch with misty eyes as Scott and Allison made their way around the dance floor, twirling and whirling around into a fading sunset while cheesy love songs played in the background.

For all his jest at their dopamine-inducing romance, he was genuinely happy for them. After all the trials and tribulations they had been through with the Argent family, they deserved to be with each other.

He told them so, sniffing and blowing his nose into his tie. Scott had hugged him with equally misty eyes but when Stiles had declined their invitation to accompany them on a double date, Allison had put her foot down. 

He was going, and that was the end of that.

 

He had a nightmare the day before, where he was dancing with Malia in an empty room.

He was so nervous and kept stepping on her feet before he tripped on his own laces and hurtled straight into a row of tables and chairs, sending bowls of food and drink flying everywhere. He immediately stood to apologise for embarrassing her but strangely enough when he looked up, it was Derek towering down at him, an ugly sneer on his handsome face.

He hadn’t managed to fall back asleep after that.

 

He was still tempted to back out and Allison, having sensed this, had obviously called in for reinforcements.

He got a large package from Lydia the very next morning.

The entire monstrosity was wrapped in glossy pink aluminium paper with patterns of red kiss marks all over the box. Everyone had laughed at him in the Great Hall and he cursed the both of them under his breath.

Then thinking that he might as well enjoy his suffering, he pulled apart the pink satin ribbon.

What he saw made his jaw drop and he closed the lid back mechanically, unwilling to entertain the girls’ fantasies of a movie magic makeover.

He was not doing this, not for all the galleons tucked away in Gringotts.

It was bad enough that Scott had bent and folded like a twig, getting fluffed up like taxidermied peacock with the fancy whistles and flutes, but no sir, not him.

He steadfastly ignored the gift and instead put on a plain white shirt and black chinos. Lots of people were going to be packed in that hall, he reasoned, no one would notice if he came in disguise. He just wanted to take a peek at the festivities, sneak some delicious honey baked ham into his pockets, joke around with Scott for a bit and then return to his room just as quietly as he came.

Was that really so wrong?

 

Yes, yes it was. For fate evidently had other plans for him tonight. 

Waiting for him in the common room were Allison and Albus, who had obviously been stationed there ahead of time to ambush him.

When did he become so predictable? Stiles thought sullenly, bracing himself to run past them, though he knew he had no chance of winning. But he refused to go down without a fight and it was still the thought that counted. They had taken one look at him, sighed simultaneously, then shared twin looks of contempt before hooking an arm around each of his and dragged him unceremoniously back up the stairs, all the while ignoring his violent protests to twist and turn out of their tight grasps.

 _“_ _This is a violation of my human rights!”_ He had shouted, voice falling upon deaf ears, _“I demand an appeal to the court this instant!”_

 

Which is how he ends up with Allison and Albus currently fussing over him.

“Allissson,” He hissed in panic, glaring at his reflection in the mirror “This is as mortifying as it gets! And for the _last_ time, I am not putting on _makeup_!”

She ignored him and tightened the belt around his waist in response, causing him to swat her hands away in embarrassment.

“It’s just a little blush Stiles. Don't be a baby,” She eyed him threateningly, an open compact in her hand. “Or would you rather I fetch Lydia?”

He gulped.

"Didn't think so." Then she proceeded to dab fiercely, blending more powder under his eye bags. The tiny puffs of dust made his nose itch in protest and his retort was muffled by a loud sneeze.

“I would listen to her if I were you.” Albus nodded enthusiastically. The younger boy sat on his bed with a wide smile on his face, legs swinging to and fro over the edge.

Stiles glared at him.

Albus was the only obstacle between him and the door and the little twat knew it. He had been smart enough to situate himself there incase Stiles decided to bolt again, and had taken great pleasure at his misery for the entirety of the evening.

Stiles sighed, feeling subdued. Why were the men in his life always taking orders from the women in his life?

He surveyed their handiwork again in the full-length mirror, feeling terribly self-conscious. In retaliation, he grabbed the yellow fedora from his bedside table and smashed it on his head, hiding his face from view.

The response was immediate.

 

“Stiles, take off that ridiculous hat.”

He dodged their prying fingers, “How dare you! And for your information it’s not a hat, it’s a _fedora._ And no, it is not _ridiculous._ ”

He made a face, “It is _suave_.”

“It makes you look like a dingus, take it off!” Albus reached over to pluck it from his head, but he held on for dear life.

“ _The Mask_ wore it and so will I! Please Allison, it's the only chance for me to wear it, it’s been my childhood dream.” He did his best impression of Bambi eyes at her.

Albus tugged harder, “What are you going on about? And stop lying! You wore it last Halloween when you were dressed as a troll. It took forever to wash off the green face paint, remember? Now hand it over.”

“I was not a _troll_ ,” He stated resentfully, “I was _The Mask_!” 

“Stiles.” Allison crossed her arms in warning, “Take that hat off.”

He pouted, but took it off quickly.

There was nothing else to do but to look in the mirror and he did so reluctantly. 

Lydia’s gift had included three decorative cases and the first contained a single-breasted short black overcoat with a wide peak lapel, the fabric was soft and luxurious under his touch, lining the top half of his body perfectly and cutting neatly at his hips. Then beneath the first layer of wrapping paper, there lay the second velvet box and tucked immaculately inside was a three-piece satin suit.

A dark mauve waistcoat sans lapel that hugged his non-existent pectorals snuggly, followed by a crisp white starched button down shirt with a stiff upper collar and finally, a long pair of pleated purple slacks that draped down his legs, ending gracefully right at his ankles. Stiles would never find another pair of pants that fitted his giraffe legs so well again, at least not without paying twice the price for a master tailor.

The last item in the box was a small glass jewellery chest where he found three items of exquisite taste, black silk bow tie, a pair of sterling silver cuff links embedded with amethyst stones and lastly, dark purple leather gloves to match the rest of the ensemble.

 

It had looked ridiculously expensive in the packaging, but on him…

“Aw, I look like Barney.” He whined, turning left and right, the stiff fabric digging into his skin uncomfortably.

“Barney could only wish to be so handsome,” Allison winked, placing a chaste kiss on his cheek affectionately.

She stepped back to eye him from head to toe, nodding and spinning him in circles before placing a pensive finger on her chin, tilting her head to the side.

“Something’s missing…” she mumbled in concentration before an idea hits her and she reached down to her corsage, plucking out a small pinch of purple and white flowers. She rolled it into a white pocket square handkerchief before tucking it expertly into the breast pocket of his mauve waistcoat.   

“There we go. Don't you look nice.” She smiled in satisfaction, resting her head on his shoulder as they gazed into the mirror.

He didn’t agree in the slightest.

She was certainly gorgeous, but all he wanted to do was to remove the monkey suit and adorn his Batman costume, at least it would’ve made for a better disguise.

“You do look nice Stiles.” Albus said sincerely, bouncing up and down excitedly on the bed.

“Thanks for the boost of confidence guys, but I highly doubt it’s going to go well tonight. This is so obviously a pity date, it’s not even funny.” Stiles watched in the mirror as his features twisted into a sneer, the dark purple color of his clothes twisting alongside him. Oddly enough, they seemed to fit him. He never thought he could pull off purple, it always felt too bold of a colour but Lydia always had a good eye for these things.

 

He smoothed out a crease on the jacket, watching the mauve fabric glint against his pale skin. It wasn’t the loud allure of red or the stony chastity of blue or even the quiet loveliness of black.

Just snarky purple; the colour of sour plums, the shade of fresh bruises.

 

“You never know.” Albus shrugged, clearly bored of the conversation and turned to inspect himself in the mirror, clearly liking what he saw.

“No, but I do know Malia.” He sighed as they made their way down the stairs, “She’ll probably march in wearing the full Durmstrang uniform, demand food on a golden platter and then fling me across the dance floor.”

Allison smiled curiously, “Why do you think that?”

“Because…” he shrugged, “Because I haven’t seen her in anything else since their ship arrived.”

When they reach the bottom of the steps Scorpius is waiting for them, his light blonde hair glistening in the green light.

“Woah, Stiles you look... actually presentable. I’m impressed." The boy nodded appreciatively as he trotted over and linked his arms with Albus’, "You guys did quite a good job.”

“Lydia called me in for reinforcements but I see you guys have handled it on your own pretty well.”

 

 _What was this,_ Stiles thought wryly, _The Triforce Matchmaking Squad?_

“Gee thanks.” Stiles replied, reaching up to adjust his too-tight collar but Allison flapped his hands away and tightened it more. He sighed, it was only the start of the evening and already he felt ready to retire to bed. 

“Is that…?” Scorpius squinted at him, the heavy scrutiny adding to his self-consciousness.

He could feel the slick sheen of sweat at his back, sticking like glue to the button-down of his short before being enveloped by the waistcoat like a neat packet of burrito.

The boy asked in mock surprise, “Is that... _Makeup_?”

Stiles bit down on his tongue and didn't answer, so Allison nodded enthusiastically for him.

Scorpius stared at him for a beat longer before bursting out in laughter. Beside him, Albus sniggered along quietly then burst into a loud snort not a minute later and rolled onto the floor, clutching his stomach in gleeful agony.

Stiles huffed, banging the door open and storming up the cellar stairs, Allison following close behind.

 

“Have a lovely evening Ms Allison! Ms Stilinski!” Scorpius jeered as they left. Albus’ rambunctious cackling was still audible, echoing in the green-lit stairway like a homicidal maniac.

“ _Bugger off Malfoy!”_ He echoed back, gritting his teeth and quickening his pace, the tight fabric of his purple slacks groaning in complaint and sought to further constrain his movements, making it harder to breathe.

 

He could already tell it was a bad start to what was going to be an even worse evening.

 

===

  

Even in his soured mood Stiles took his time to marvel at the festivities.

 

The decoration committee had taken the candy cane theme to the extreme this year, and the entrance hall was lit up in red and white Christmas lights. The banisters cascaded down like liquid gold as students dressed in their formal attire glided up the steps like prince and princesses of foreign lands.  
The lamps and candles had been replaced with hanging gilded medallions surrounded by garlands of poinsettia and hollies. And from the ceiling, there hung various ornaments and baubles that had been enchanted to jingle whenever anyone passed below it.

There was a lush red carpet with gold trims leading all the way up and Stiles followed it to the main foyer, with Allison's arm folded neatly around his own.

She was gorgeous of course, dark hair curled elegantly into a butterfly braid. She wore a pastel lavender gown and a matching light blue silk shawl that glimmered silver in the warm light, flowing down to the floor and accentuating her graceful figure.

She smiled at him, leaning into his side playfully and tugging a stray strand of hair away from her bright pink cheeks.

He felt a great honour to walk by her side, as they waited for Scott to arrive. When they finally let go, Stiles couldn’t help but wipe a doleful tear away from his eye, feeling very much like a father handing his daughter over at the altar, even if it was to Scott, a standup guy whom he trusted with his life. 

It certainly didn’t stop him from yelling after them, “Have my baby home before midnight McCall! And use protection!”

This earned them a round of embarrassed laughter from passersby.

Scott had stuck out his tongue at him, _that cheeky bugger,_ before offering his arm to a giggling Allison and together they had ascended the stairs, looking at each other like two perfect halves of a whole. 

Stiles watched them affectionately. Two of the most beautiful people he knew were finally together, it was the kind of fairytale ending that everyone could hope to dream of. 

Something dislodges in his heart, for he knew that the odds were stacked against them. He’s sure that one day the Argent family will drive a decisive wedge between them, and when that day comes he fears for both their safety as much as he knows that the success rates of teenage romances were slimmer than none, that the road they tread is and will always be, on thin ice.

But at this moment, at this very instant here in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, they had forever.

And Stiles thinks that maybe, just maybe, it might be enough.

 

After they were gone, he was left alone at the bottom of the stairs, shifting from side to side nervously. Everyone else had already gathered at the entryway and he bit his lip in panic, maybe Malia had decided to ditch him? Or worse, maybe she’d taken a look at Barney and decided to go in without him?

He was tempted to enter alone, no matter how embarrassing it was to arrive without a date. The night was just too beautiful to pass up and his stomach rumbled hungrily in agreement, maybe he could snag a turkey leg before leaving?

He’s about to head up the steps when the clacking of heels against marble floors grabs his attention.

Then he sees a girl, no a woman, wearing a deep crimson red velvet dress and his jaw drops. She smirks at him, the sweetheart neckline dipping slightly. As she moved, the dress seemed to come alive with her. Long draping tails caressed the floor, the sensual swaying of thick fabric hung loosely from her hips but bunched tightly at all the right places. The black lace net of a fascinator headpiece obscured her countenance, but he knows that it’s Malia. 

She smirks at him from across the hall and he can’t tear his eyes away. With every step she took, her smirk only grew wider, eyes twinkling with mirth and Stiles could feel his jaw drop further to the floor.

Until she was barely a few steps from him, and tripped.

 

“Cursez!” she hissed angrily, hitching the dress up and knocking the heels of her shoes angrily on the floor.

Stiles laughed, finding a comrade in her clumsiness and reached out a helpful hand to steady her. 

“Yea man, I know what you mean. These boots are killing me too, patent leather my foot. They do smell kinda nice though, like beef jerky or something. But by jove do they hurt, and we’re suppose to dance in these? Geez.” He berated nervously, scratching the back of his head before holding out an arm for her to take.

“You look… uh, you look…you know…”

She smirked again, hooking one arm around his.

“I knows.”

They stood there, just staring at each other. With every second that passed Stiles could almost believe that tonight wouldn’t be as big of a disaster as he had imagined.

Maybe he could even enjoy himself a little, act normal for once.

 

He smiled back, “Right, nearly forgot. Uh... here... I got you something. I didn't know what you were going to be wearing and if it would match so I just picked the most popular option. Guess you can never go wrong with those.”

He took her hand gently and held out a small corsage of red roses and white baby’s breath, it matched her dress perfectly and he looped it around her wrist, long fingers making quick work of the delicate ribbon.

She held her hand up to the light to admire his handiwork, “It is nice.” 

“And so are you." Then she grinned at him, a row of shiny white teeth peeking out from under cherry lips "Let us go.”

He nodded in earnest, “Yes! I’m starving. Haven’t eaten anything the whole day and I don't care what nobody says but hors d'oeuvre are horse shite. I’m heading straight for that buffet table.”

He babbled on “This is the only time of year they serve roast beef you know? They used to serve it at the Start of Year Feast but then some vegans complained about dietary health restrictions so they had to take it off the menu. If there’s any leftovers, I’m hoarding it in my pockets, even if this suit is on loan from the Lydia Martin foundation.”

She probably didn't understand half of what he said but she laughed anyway, and Stiles felt his chest beam with pride. He led her up the stairs and she propped unsteadily against him.

Together, they entered the Great Hall.

 

It was _gorgeous_.

He took a sharp intake of breath as he took in the grand splendour displayed before them. The decoration committee had truly outdone themselves this time.

He felt like a prince and Malia was his princess as they strolled into the ballroom.   

The centre of the hall had been a cleared for a giant Christmas tree, with the tip barely grazing the ceiling. Across the support beams were low hanging chandeliers shining on either side, they were so close that Stiles could almost reach out and touch the sparkling crystals with the tips of his fingers.   
There were smaller pines circling the walls and each had been decorated with flashing white fairy lights and garlands of red roses in full bloom. At the front of the room, the choir stood in red suits on the far right and the orchestra in gold blazers on the left, leaving a seamless symmetry of colours at the podium.

He looked around for Scott and Allison but couldn't see them anywhere.

There were plenty of couples though so he might have missed them. Lining all around the pines were matching pairs wrapped in each other’s arms and swaying to the sound of soft music in the background.

It was all terribly romantic, but he had one priority for the evening and one priority only.

His eyes zoomed in on the other side of the room, where the buffet table was.

Even from afar he could make out the giant chocolate fountain bubbling away by the side of a dessert bar, followed by a long table with a mountainous assortment of stuffed turkeys, rolled pork loins, sliced ham, smoked cod, cheese tarts, minced meat pies and then finally his beloved, right smack in the middle, was the steaming hunk of roast beef.

His mouth watered and he made a beeline for it, practically dragging Malia along.

But then he hears a loud ‘ _Whoosh’_ from above him and he gasped in surprise, ducking away just in time. It was Peeves, sitting smugly on a ghostly carriage drawn by an equally ghostly herd of reindeers. He laughed despite himself, as Peeves took to the reins again and disappeared into thin air, presumably to scare off another unsuspecting victim.

A voice from behind surprised him “You look good Stiles. You too Malia.”

He whipped his head around, heart pounding in his chest.

 

But it’s Danny, strolling towards them with each of the Beauxbatons twins on his arms. He could never tell Ethan and Aiden apart, even though they had shared classes for over two months now.

“Nothing compared to you though.” He laughed good-naturedly, trying to keep his voice calm. He had long since suspected that Danny had some kinky three-way relationship thing going on and Scott had only confirmed his suspicions when he accidentally walked in on them in the Hufflepuff dormitory one afternoon. 

That was one of the few times he had seen Scott ugly cry, and it had not been a pretty sight, hilarious of course, but no, not pretty at all. 

Danny was about to respond when a blast of trumpets cut him off. Headmistress Macgonagall stepped onto the podium to welcome them and everyone gravitated towards the centre, leaving a thin strip of space down the middle.

 

_“… And now let us welcome the Champions of this year’s Triwizard Cup!”_

 

There was a huge round of applause and Stiles clapped along, chanting Scott’s name and throwing a fist in the air.

But he was too far away to see anything above the huge mass of people.

There was the sound of trumpets again, and the booming voice of the choir resonated throughout the room as the champions made their way in. They couldn't keep his attention for long however, and once again he stole a glance over at the buffet table, the yearning stronger than ever now that the question was completely empty.

"Dey are so beautiful!” Malia exclaimed longingly, waving and tiptoeing to get a better view.

“Yes, yes they are.” Stiles swallowed, dislodging his arm from hers and inching his way slowly towards the smell of food.

 

He was distracted, completely missing the parade as the pairs made their way down the hall and took their places around the large tree. The music reached a crescendo just as they started dancing, twirling and swirling around effortlessly like fancy spinning tops.

It’s then that he notices the object of his affections standing quietly near the buffet table, and he took a step back in shock.

For there it was, blinking enticingly at him from across the room, an actual, fully functioning, top of the line-

Popcorn machine.

He stared at it mutely, breath taken away with every incandescent flash of the golden light bulb, the rolls of kernels enticing him further and further away from the crowd. He dreamed of sinking his teeth into the soft lap of sweet and salty clouds, lapping his tongue around the melted butter, and the satisfying _crunch crunch_ sounds in his ears. The wheel whirred steadily like the calls of a siren.

 

He hadn’t seen a real popcorn machine since he left for Hogwarts and the sight retrieved a long forgotten childhood memory. He doesn't pay attention to anything else, waiting with bated breath for his popcorn, hands at the ready with an extra large red and white box.  

Then, Malia grabbed his coat and the empty popcorn box slipped from his hands and lay dejectedly on the floor.

He whined in displeasure but she was already hauling him onto the dance floor. 

It was packed, every other couple had joined in soon after the initial ceremonial dance. They came in one after the other, adding petals to a blossoming rose with the champions right in the centre, as was customary. 

He was still moaning at the loss of his popcorn box but she directed his hands on her hips and off they went.

She was strong for her stature and led him easily in counter-clockwise direction around the carpeted floor, nearly lifting him off the ground with her reckless twirling.

But he was laughing as he tried to keep up.

The chaotic rhythm of their movements was so out of sync that his shoulders kept knocking against the other dancers and he hollered a string of unabashed apologies as they rounded the Christmas tree again.

She grinned up at him, pleased that he hadn’t shied away. He smiled back at her, temporarily forgiving her for her indiscretion with the popcorn machine.

In their own little way, they were having fun.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Kira in a long white lace gown and she's dancing with the Durmstrang student, Matt Daehler. He winked at her when she caught his gaze. She giggled and winked back.

The music slowed, a signal to prepare for a change of partners, and he’s about to reach for Kira when someone cuts in swiftly from behind.

 

It’s Erica, a ruby red smirk on her face as she grabbed his outstretched hand and aligned their bodies in tandem to the music.

She was wearing a low-cut backless red dress, having clearly ignored the dress code for the evening. While Malia’s had been closer to a dark maroon, hers was a bright fire engine red.

He glanced around nervously, if Boyd caught him dancing with his girlfriend Stiles would get flogged to death; which was no doubt what Erica had in mind for him. 

 

“You look _ravishing_ tonight,” she whispered deviously into his ear, relaxing easily against his shoulder as they swayed.

He sought frantically for Malia but she was captive in Boyd’s arms, looking as helpless as he felt.

“Hello Erica," he swallowed, "To what do I owe this pleasure?” 

 

She licked her lips and looked into his eyes. Stiles could detect a genuine trace of concern in those depths. Some foreign emotion lined her sharp features but then it was gone and she leaned in even closer, pressing her bosom to his chest, tightening her grip around his shoulders until he was suffocating under the weight.

_“He’s waiting for you.”_

“Who?” He asks, but the tempo had quickened and Malia was circling back into his embrace as if she had never left.

 

“Vhat did she vant?” She demanded, narrowing her eyes.

“I don't know.” He replied truthfully, shrugging his shoulders in nonchalance before grinning impishly, “So about that roast beef I mentioned earlier…”

She laughed, pulling him along easily as they danced their way out of the inner rings, taking the lull in music as an interval to finally break off and head towards the dining table. After the workout on the dance floor, everyone else had also settled in for dinner and there was a long line at the buffet table.

Stiles spotted Scott and Allison nearby, waving at them enthusiastically. They both waved back and beckoned the pair to their table. 

As Malia and him slowly made their way across the room, he sees Derek from afar; spotting him in the sea of faces like a flashing beacon.

 

It’s only a glance, barely a glimpse; one so brief that time seemed to stop.

 

Derek had his back facing him, whispering something low and conspiratorial to the girl in his arms, whom Stiles recognised as Paige Krasikeva. 

She chuckled in response, clinking their glasses together.

Their flawlessness took his breath away.

Derek, in his debonair classic black and white suit and her, in an elegant dusky grey Empire waist dress. They were the epitome of stylish sophistication, looking every bit like they had just stepped out of a painting, figures propped carefully against the plush rose and opulent gold backdrop of the ballroom. 

His breath hitched, the tight waistcoat constricting his airflow, the same suffocating feeling was back, the same niggling voice laughing at his folly.

 

But then the moment passes. Time speeds up again, and it was over.

 

He swallowed a gulp of air as they slipped past each other in the crowd, Derek doesn't even look at him, and he blamed the hunger of his stomach for the emptiness in his chest.

He swallowed again, harder this time, forcing a grin on his face as he piled more food onto his plate, suddenly feeling starved. 

After they were done, he followed Malia to where Scott and Allison were waiting for them, keeping his eyes trained on her the whole time.

They settled their food on the circular dining table and he pulled out the chair for her. She immediately collapsed into it with a tired sigh, pointing to her feet with mild irritation.

Nodding in sympathy, he bent down on one knee to inspect the damage, gently unbinding one foot, then the other, from their ribbed confinements.

There were angry red indents from where the laces had dug into her skin and blisters were already blooming at the sole, a promise of further swelling by tomorrow. He closed his eyes and muttered a spell, waving his long fingers over her toes. 

The pain will subside for now, but only for a moment. When dawn breaks, the spell will be broken and the pain will come back to haunt her with twice the ferocity.

But it was all he could do for now.  

Malia grinned at him, thankful for his generosity.

 

“I’m thirsty.” Allison piped up suddenly.

“Why don't we go get some drinks Scott?” She eyed him with a sly smile, standing up to leave. It was a clear cue to leave them alone if Stiles ever did see one.

Scott, bless his heart, didn’t get the message, “I’ll go get it, you must be tired too.”

“No, allow me.” Stiles interjected, he needed a break from familiar company and their ensuing matchmaking schemes, “Malia you alright here?”

She nodded, “I’m dursty too.” She leaned back in her chair, rubbing her sore ankles, “I vant something sveet.”

“Hey great idea,” He looked over his shoulder, breathing a sign of relief when he sees the line at the desert bar finally receding, “I’ll get us some cake and chocolate covered strawberries, lots of it. How’s that sound?” 

She grinned her thanks and nodded again. 

“Anything for milady." He did a low bow, smiling as he heard their laughter. "Be back in a jiffy!” He waved as he left the table.

Malia rolled her eyes but saluted him mockingly as he walked away.

“Stiles!” Scott called out in warning, “Remember the sugar rush of ‘O’ Sixteen!”

He laughed, mind flashing back to that fateful Halloween night.

When he was younger, his parents had abstained him from sugary treats for the longest time on account of his undiagnosed ADHD. His first Halloween in Hogwarts was also the first time he had lain eyes on such a diverse spectrum of candy in his life. Who could blame for going a little stir-crazy?

It also wasn't his fault that he found a horde of sweet delicacies stuffedin his bed that night, from bonbons to candied apples, pumpkin pasties to cauldron cupcakes, all manner of sweet treats one could imagine, and there were even some that he had never seen before.

He honestly had no idea where they came from or how they had gotten there in the first place but and he briefly considered the possibility of sleepeating.

He savoured the memory as he waited in line at the dessert table, wrestling behind James Potter to grab at the tongs.

The older boy had stepped aside with a warm _'Help yourself Stiles',_ before moving out of the way to let him through.  

James Potter was the only Gryffindor he didn't mind having around and one of the few who didn't outcast him, what with James' own brother being a Slytherin and all. And with him gone, the line was almost empty so Stiles could take his time choosing the best pickings.

One needed to plan for these things, mindlessly piling everything on for the sake of 'trying one of everything' would only end in disappointment. He'd been there plenty of times before, accidentally ingesting nasty stuff like liquorice and low fat greek yoghurt.

Pish posh, he wanted only the best; thick French meringue frosting jammed into crisp pâte à choux of a dozen profiteroles, sticky toffee pudding oozing with sea salt caramel sauce and the lightest, airiest chiffon cake with healthy dollops of fresh whipped cream.

With enough self-discipline, he piled on the healthier options first, a wide variety of fresh fruits, sliced bananas, cubed kiwis and halved strawberries; before coating each stick with the thick gush of dark chocolate ganache.

Then he moved onto some coffee éclairs stuffed high with vanilla butter cream before finally deciding on white chocolate covered blackberry petit fours. The purple and white fondant seeming to match his evening attire.

He balanced everything precariously on the large plate and looked at the beautiful arrangement with immense pride.

 

Just as he was about to leave and thought no one was looking, he snatched an apple rose puff pastry from the platter and stuffed it straight into his mouth, _mhming_ in pleasure at the burst of tartness sliding down his throat. Then he turned resolutely and walked away, squeezing through the crowd and trying his best not to trip on his feet.

Unfortunately for him, the drinks table was on the other side of the hall. He thought about going back to his friends first but felt that if he stopped now, he wouldn't be able to leave for a good while. So he hoisted the plate on his arm and began his long journey.

He was almost there too before he sees who but Jackson _bloody_ Whittermore standing suspiciously in the far corner of the room. 

“What are you doing?” Stiles demanded.

Jackson turned guiltily “Nothing!” 

Upon seeing a familiar face, he breathed a sigh of relief, “Oh it’s just you Stilinski.”

The Gryffindor sneered, removing his hand from his pocket to reveal a honey brown flask, “I’m spiking the punch of course, what does it look like I’m doing?”  

Stiles wants to argue but he gets cut off, “Relax, it's a party and if you tell anyone, I’ll say that you did it.” Jackson shrugged and uncapped the bottle, pouring its content into the large punch bowl

“And they’ll rather believe me than you, so keep this a secret. Or else.” 

 

Stiles' grip tightened on the porcelain plate. He stared at the jerk before him.

Jackson was wearing a cream white suit with gold buttons and a navy blue tie tucked into his collar, looking every bit like the drunken sailor lost at sea that he was. He thought about Lydia and his blood seethed, magic singeing with anger as steam rose through the vents on his skin. But he bit it down, resolutely directing the lava flow back into his body.

He didn't want any casualties, not tonight, no drama for tonight.

The evening had managed to weave a delicate sense of normalcy and he didn't want to break it before the clock struck midnight.

His plans had gone better than he could ever hope; he met his friends, ate delicious food, he hadn't fallen down or broken anything up til this point, and even got the chance to dance with a beautiful girl.

He wouldn't let a lizard like Whittermore ruin it for him.  

 _You’re having a good time_ , he reminded himself, taking a deep breath to calm himself.

 _It’s just Jackson, don't let him spoil it, don't make a scene_ , he swallowed but his throat felt dry.

_Malia is waiting for you._

 

He sighed audibly, remembering that there were indeed people who would soon come looking for him if he took too long.

Even on Christmas night Jackson was still such a dick, the boy must’ve been born with the gift.

“I won’t tell if you won’t.” He promised half-heartedly, grabbing the flask from Jackson’s hand and downing the remaining contents in one full gulp.

He doesn't get to finish it however before cursing his immediate recklessness, chocking viciously on the burning sensation that surged down his chest like liquid fire; its flames licking at his lungs, coursing ashes through his veins.

“Whoa Lover Boy, hold your horses there. There’s no need to show off.” There was an arrogant smile on his lips but Jackson's movements were nervous, darting his eyes back and forth as he tried to swipe the bottle from his hands.

Stiles evaded, hopping away just in time.

“Shove off Whittermore,” he slurred loudly, words crumbling against each other “Why don'tcha, why don't ya go back to being cuck…cuck… cuckolded by Lydia Martin you _arsehole_.”

Jackson stared at him in shock, eyes bugging out from their sockets. He looked like he had just been slapped across the face, fists quivering in undisguised rage at having his pride so openly wounded.

And by someone so low on the social ladder, so insignificant, as Stiles Stilinski.

Face contorted in anger, he spat out “At least she waited for me to ask her out!” 

“Unlike a hairless git I know!” Bullets of saliva shot from his lips like a machinegun.

 

Stiles clutched the bottle in his fist so hard that he could feel the  _zing_ of glassbeneath his fingernails. His other hand was already making complicated symbols in the air, magic wound tight in his body, slithering at the pit of his gut, poised like a coiled viper ready to spring.

It was almost funny the way Jackson's face morphed from a turnip red to a fearful shade of vomit green. The boy took a step back hurriedly, fumbling around to reach for his wand.

 _As if there was time_ Stiles chuckled, _as if there was anything you could do to take it back.  
_

His arm was no longer a part of his body, but a bionic weapon charged with maximum electricity. He wielded it like a cross, aiming straight for Jackson, watching with mundane interest as the boy doubled over in pain. But it wasn't enough, this was just the tip of the iceberg wasn't it? He was capable of so much more, if someone could just see it, if someone would just look beyond the surface, they'll see the danger, oh the things he could do _—_

Then, a firm hand pressed down on his shoulder. 

 

“You need to cool your head.”

 

At once, the electricity crackled and fizzled out.

He doesn't dare to turn, didn't want to see _him._  Couldn’t bare the thought of being witnessed by _him_. He didn't want to accept that the man had such control over him, didn't want to admit that he could recognise that gravelly voice anywhere; could feel that ghostly touch even when it wasn’t there.

“He started it!” Jackson accused, his voice going shrill.

There were people gathering around them now, whispering quietly at the sidelines.

Lydia was one of them, and she stepped forward from the crowd in a gorgeous blush pink mermaid gown. She slinked quietly over to Jackson and slipped one arm around his own easily, chiding him softly under her breath like she was placating a disobedient pup, “I tell you to fetch me a drink and you start a fight? What am I going to do with you Jackson?” 

She shook her head and tut-tutted him, a charming smile spread across her face, one so hypnotic that it seemed to cast a spell over her shipwreck of a boyfriend, soothing his frayed nerves and injured pride.

It was the kind of magic that only girls like her could possess. Stiles found it almost hilarious as he watched her subdue Jackson so easily, hooking him around her little finger.

Then they were gone.

Wandering back into the seamless crowd, the argument was already forgotten and their fading forms blended back into the scenery, back into that nameless sea of faces.

He watched them go, feeling disorientated.

He almost wished they hadn’t left so quickly, for now he was faced with a great storm. The waves were closing in on him, the alcohol in his system an encroaching tsunami, threatening to engulf everything as the tides grew higher and higher. 

And he could only watch helplessly.

 

Derek’s hand was still on his shoulder, nailing him to the spot. He shrugged it off roughly, “Mind your own business Hale.”

The hand comes back again. Fast as lightening, steady as nails into a coffin.

The grip on his neck tightened and just like that, he was heaved off.

Away from the warm comfort of the blinking Christmas lights, away from friends and familiar company, away from the sea of faces that had threatened to drown him.

Now he was washed up on a desert island. Derek’s sandy skin sliding roughly upon his own, lodging into the sacred nooks and crannies of his body. The open bottle of alcohol sloshed wildly in his hands, his only companion as they entered the darkness.

 

The plate of chocolate covered fruits and desserts lay forgotten back on the table.

  

===

  

“Stop!” Stiles begged. He arched, he twisted and he turned, anything to vault from the punishing hold on his wrist, but the effort only ended up hurting himself. 

 

“No.” came the obstinate growl, sounding very much like a petulant child who had just learnt how to use the words and kept repeating it for namesake. 

“She’s no good for you.” A rough hand landed on his chest, pushing him back even he pulled him in. Then the hand dug just below his left clavicle, excavating his heart, the boutonnière in his breast pocket fell to the floor, spilling purple flowers everywhere.

 

“Who? _Oh_.” It takes him a moment to register that he was referring to Malia and Stiles snapped in anger, wrenching his hand away as best as he could but failing anyway.

Derek continued to drag him down the corridor, passing along through the Grand Staircase before the high ceilings above gave way to the open sky.

“As opposed to _who_ , may I ask?” He narrowed his eyes, “Like you’re such an expert on that right, Derek? Like _you_ of _all_ people have any right to talk!” he spat out. 

 

His mind flashed to the image of Derek and Paige together, so lost in their own little private conversation that they had eluded everyone else, everyone including Stiles. 

He sighed in defeat, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, “Stop cockblocking me Hale, just leave me alone why don’t you? You seem to have done quite a good job of that so far, haven’t you?"

"So why not continue to do so for the rest of the evening? I’ll be sure to return the favour.” His words sounded like poison to his own ears, a voice too venomous to be truly angry, yet too vivacious to mask his misery.

Derek stared at him, that same unreadable expression on his face.

“You’re drunk.” 

 

Stiles wanted to break something. He wanted to hear the cacophony of smashed porcelain, wanted to feel the crack of broken branches in his hands, he wanted to spray paint the walls with his folly, to destroy something so irrevocably that it could never be fixed again. He needed to break something before the desire welled up like a reservoir and broke him instead.

“Oh my god! Who invited Captain Obvious to the party huh? Well let me tell you something else that’s obvious, I’m getting laid, laid, laaaaaid tonight, you hear me?”

“I don’t even care who or what does it! Seriously I’m so high right now I’ll hump anything, even Georgie, if I get the chance. So just let me go alright? Why do you even care, you walk around like you hate me, and you don't even know me! And what about your girlfriend? You can’t just leave her there! And Malia's waiting for me."

Stiles gasped in horror. "Oh Merlin... She's still waiting for me. I left my date waiting for me!" 

"The first girl I take out on a date and I ditched her" he groaned and pointed an accusatory finger, "It's all your fault Hale! I swear the only time you even talk to me is when someone's life is in mortal danger or something terrible is about to happen and you need my help to fix it. Then suddenly you're talking to me like we've been best buddies for four years! So yes I'm drunk, I have to be drunk, or I'll break something trying to talk to a selfish prick like y—”

“Who’s Georgie?”

A blanket of utter silence washes over them.

 

Stiles blinked owlishly. Of all the things Derek could've responded with, this was clearly not one he had prepared for.

He replied slowly, “ ...he's my... my best friend.”

He watched as Derek’s eyebrows rose delicately, a sign which Stiles took to convey confusion, and or amusement. He tried to focus on the former and blatantly ignored the latter.

“I thought Scott was your best friend.”

“He isss, or wasss. Georgie is my other best friend, you know, of the succulent variety.”

“Your best friend is a cactus?” Derek finally let go of his arm, turning away from him and doubling over in hushed chortles.

Stiles sniffed delicately, “Stop laughing.”  

He turned away and surveyed his surroundings. It was dark out but Stiles could make out the tall arch of entrance hall. They were standing right on the stone steps overlooking the black lake.

It was the place where they had first met.

 

“See? You know nothing about me” he sniffed again, visibly hurt at being dragged around against his will only to be mocked mercilessly right after.

He looked over at Derek, broad shoulders still shaking with mirth.

He felt strangely disconnected. The Derek he knew and the Derek he was looking at now were as different as day and night, like they were two completely different people and Stiles couldn't decide which one was the real one, and which one was the one he wanted.

“Scott’s a great guy you know, better than you’ll ever be,” he placed a long finger on Derek’s chest reproachfully. 

The movement was slight but it knocked the older boy back like he had been hexed, quickly schooling his features back into a more familiar look of resentment, like Stiles had condemned him with a single touch, like he had placed a taser to his chest, pointed a gun to his heart.

 

He ignored Derek’s discomfort and babbled on, “But between Allison and the tournament, it’s like, he doesn’t have time for me anymore y’know... Does that make me a bad person?”

Stiles shook his head, not looking for an answer, “I’m happy for him though it’s just… urgh you know? Being a third wheel man, that’s no fun.”

He made his way down the stairs and Derek reached out immediately to steady him but he waved the wandering hands away, “No fun at all let me tell ya, unless it’s a threesome like Danny and the twins…”

“But no.” He shook his head again, more firmly this time.

His features twisted in not quite disgust, “Cause Scott’s such a bro y’know? And Allison is just… Allison. She’s just so nice y’know? She’s just so niceee…” he finished, dragging out the last syllable in a slur.

“But just no.” He lifted his hands in an _x_ formation and wandered off into the cold night, ghostly wisps of air escaping from between his parted lips.

He took another swig from the flask and shivered, the warm liquid travelling all the way down to his toes.

The crescent moon hung like a smile in the night sky, the crunch of snow was soft beneath his boots. The lake had frozen solid over the winter, stuck as a lifeless block of ice, waiting patiently for spring to embrace it once again.

“I’m happy for him though,” Stiles added quietly, taking an experimental step on the thin ice, watching his reflection crack with satisfaction.

“He’s all I got y'know?” He retracted his foot, leaving behind a mirror of his shattered face reflecting back at him from the centre of the web.

He hummed a nonsensical melody, kicking up fallen snow and splaying the tiny white speckles all over his mauve suit. 

 

“You’ve got me.” Derek replied.

Hollow laughter echoed in the clearing and it’s a moment before Stiles registers it as his own.

“Yea?” He looked up, staring straight at Derek, not at all surprised to find red eyes boring into his.

The wind was howling now, angry and with the promise of frostbite nipping in the air. He dragged a sly tongue along his chapped lips and the wind howled even louder, begging to dig against his soft flesh, to sink into his brittle bones and freeze him from the inside.

“Come on then.”

But Stiles was unafraid of the cold. He was unafraid, for he had liquid fire on his side, burning through his veins, sparking his heart ablaze. He would not be afraid, for it could not touch him, he was safe on this side, smouldered amongst everlasting embers where nothing and no one could ever touch him.

He beckoned again, rueful laughter tinkling like wind chimes.

“ _Prove it_ , you damn _Sourwolf_.” 

 

“You’re drunk.” Derek tried again, taking a hesitant step forward as he reasoned with the better half of himself, the human half. But that half had died along with his parents many years ago, and now it’s the other half that takes a step forward.

The evil half propels his feet so that by the time he reached the boy, it was not a man but a wolf in a black and white suit that was standing before Stiles.

The fool arched into him, rolling his eyes dramatically, “ _Come on_.”

Stiles grabbed onto his arm like a vice once he was near enough, tugging him towards the direction of the forest.

“Where are we going?” 

Stiles grinned, “Hiking.”

Derek stared at him skeptically, “It’s past curfew.”

What he had really meant to say was that Stiles’ weak human immune system would never be able to survive this weather and that the boy was a fool for thinking he could.

“Come on loser.” 

Stiles trudged forward bravely but he’s afraid that Derek will ignore him again, will turn back and leave him here alone so he walked faster, concealing the sound of his hammering heartbeat with the successive crunch of his footsteps. Derek trotted along unwillingly, easily keeping his pace.

He took another swig from the bottle, praying for more foolish acts of bravery. He didn't have Lydia’s womanly charms, or Allison’s effortless beauty, or even Malia’s assertive sensuality; all he had was a quick tongue and a mind rendered blissfully blank by a bottle of brandy.

He had to make it work somehow.

 

They were barely walking for fifteen minutes before Stiles was puffing and panting.

 

Each step he took was more laborious than the next, having to lift his knee up higher and higher before he could take the next step through the piled snow. He sucked a bitter breath through his teeth and exhaled into his gloved palms. But it wasn't enough, and his limbs stiffened from the impinging coldness.

Beside him, Derek stuffed his hands in his pockets and glared disapprovingly.

“Told you so.”

“Shut up, and you didn't tell me anything,” he snapped. “Which by the way, I would like very much if you would keep it that way.” He forged another step forward bravely, even as the wind pushed him back with a vengeance.

“There’s an empty foxhole thirty feet upfront.” Derek ignored him and sniffed the air, “It should be just big enough.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“We should head there.” Dereks stated point blank, as if Stiles was an idiot that needed to be force fed direct instruction, as if he was a fool for having come out so far without any semblance of a plan, food or shelter.

And he _knows_ okay? He knows that it’s childish and it's pointless but Derek always brought out the worst in him and he hated it the most when the other boy was right.

“Fine!” He spat out, teeth chattering all the way.

The silence dragged on as the wind howled in anger, pelting their backs with ice crystals before quickly mutating into a full blizzard.

 

Derek didn't say anything as they made their way to the cavern, Stiles’ idiocy often spoke loudly enough for both of them. 

They spot the small cavern about three feet away and Stiles is the first to run inside, crawling in desperately on all fours.

Derek followed calmly behind him, shaking his head the whole time.

They huddled in silence for the first ten minutes. Stiles was tucked safely further back in the hollowed tunnel while Derek kept watch near the entrance, his back facing him.

Another five minutes pass and Stiles was twitching, looking around for something to fill the empty void in his mind. There was nothing of note in the small cavern though, save for a nest that smelled questionably. He decided against exploring it.

He rocked with his arms around his knees and cursed his own bad luck. The shelter of the cave managed to block out most of the wind, but it was still too cold to fall asleep and the snowstorm too terrible to consider heading back to Hogwarts any time soon. For better or worse, they were going to be stuck here for a while.

Shivering, he wrapped his coat tighter around his chest. The only reason why he hadn’t already frozen to death was thanks to the living hot water bottle in front of him.

He sidled closer, embarrassment momentarily tamped down by survival instincts.

 

“We could play a game.” He mused, leaning his back against Derek’s and rocking back and forth so that their shoulders were constantly bumping into each other.

“No.”

“What about I Spy?”

“No.” 

“I spy with my little eye… something big and hairy.”

Derek emitted a low growl.

“Geez I was just kidding,” he eyed the glistening teeth warily, “Why you always gotta be so grumpy Sourwolf?”

Derek huffed but snapped his jaw shut, turning to stare outside as the snow stacked on the treetops around them. “You would be too, if a lunatic dragged you into the woods and got you stuck in the middle of a bloody snowstorm.” 

Stiles cringed in remorse.

It had been a stupid spur of the moment decision and he already regretted it five minutes in, thinking that Derek would relent and turn back. But he hadn't, just kept following Stiles quietly through his aimless wandering in the forest.

They had been lucky that none of the magical creatures had come out to greet them, both the friendly and unfriendly sort. 

“I’m sorry okay.” He chewed out, ducking further into his arms to hide from Derek’s ardent displeasure.

A few more minutes past in endured silence. He rocked harder, forcing the blood in his body to run faster, if only to keep his mind momentarily occupied.

“Never have I ever?” He continued unabashedly, despite knowing that Derek was growing more and more irritated with him as the minutes ticked by.

“No.”

"Charades?"

"No."

He frowned, hooking and unhooking his fingers in agitation, “You gotta work with me Derek, I’m almost out of ideas here.”

“Joy.” 

The sarcasm failed to hinder him at all, instead it fueled him like kerosene. “Alright, how about truth or dare? Everyone loves truth or dare.” 

There’s a tense pause, a sign that Derek was nearly at his wit’s end.

“Fine!” He barked, “But I’ll go first.”

‘Sure.” Stiles agreed easily, secretly pleased that he had goaded Derek Hale to become his source of entertainment for the evening.

“Truth or dare?”

“Truth.” He answered in affirmation, everyone knew that it was always the safest option.

 

He promptly forgot that with Derek, no option was ever the safest option.

 

“What is a secret you’ve never told anyone before? And, I'll know if you're lying.”

Stiles winced, immediately regretting his earlier eagerness.

“Dare.”

“Fine. I dare you to tell me a secret you’ve never told anyone before.”

He rattled his brain, Derek had caught him in that one.

“When I was ten” he began, running a hand up and down his arm absently and sorely missing the warmth and lights back in Hogwarts. He never should have left the thick layers of quilted blankets on his bed, not for all the turkey legs in the United Kingdom.

“I stole my Dad’s car keys and tried to run away from home.” He continued, twiddling his thumbs restlessly.

He was still honestly surprised that Derek was actually participating in his momentary lapse of idle madness, but he was even more surprised at himself for taking the question so seriously.

 

“So, did you?” Derek asked, genuine curiosity in his gravelly voice.

“Don't be silly, my feet could barely reach the pedal.” He scratched the back of his head sheepishly, “Besides, he had a thousand other keys on there and none of them would fit in the ignition. I just moved the steering wheel and honked the horn a few times to pretend that I could, that got boring very quickly and I fell asleep. My Dad found me there a few hours later.”

“I got the worse thumpin’ of my life after that.” he shuddered at the memory.

“You deserved it.” Derek teased, shoving him back slightly.

Stiles made a face though the older boy wouldn't be able to see. They settled into a comfortable quiet, the earlier miscreants forgotten and forgiven.

He leaned against Derek heavily this time, unconsciously pressing his full body weight into the boy. It would’ve knocked anyone over but Derek sat as impassively as a boulder, still on the lookout for fading glimpses of the moon. 

 

“Why did you want to run away?”

Stiles hummed and leaned back, peeking out from under the foxhole. It was still snowing, but a sliver of silver crescent could be seen through the cluttered crisscross of black branches overhead.

He marveled at Lady Moon’s ethereal beauty, her waning figure casting the only ray of light on the dense foliage, and in turn she fed him courage, thrumming the liquid flame in his blood back to life.

“My mum died a week before.” He stated, ignoring the fact that this technically counted as a second question.

Somehow, he didn't mind.

“The car had belonged to her,” he shifted again, trying to get into a more comfortable position. He picked at the sole of his shoes, removing the bits of dried mud and scabbed ice from between the grooves, before flicking them off with casual abandon.

“It was a big monster of a vehicle. Dad always complained about the impracticability, but he secretly loved it.” He continued, sighing dreamily, “You should have seen it in all its glory, the turbo engine roaring to life, the sleek leather trimmed interior… We rode it around all the time, and I almost forgot how precious she was to us. How our lives would be so much more difficult without her around.”

Behind him Derek tensed, ears pricking in attention.

“And she was pretty too, the sides were a greenish bluish colour." he scratched his head struggling to find an apt comparison. "It’s hard to explain, kinda like mint but not really.” 

He shrugged “But it was my mum’s favourite. She said it was special because it didn't have a name, didn't fit into any category,” 

“Kinda like the colour of your eyes too, in a way.” he finished, frowning slightly.

He realized his mistake too late.

 

This was something important that he was confessing to, something unseen and secret for having drawn that connection. But he couldn't take it back, and the open vulnerability made him turn his head away in embarrassment.

The wind had stopped roaring now, leaving just the soft pitter-patter of snowfall. The moon shone her fondness upon their little respite and the forest looked almost gentle in contrast to before. He thinks he can hear the soft sounds of the soft rustling sounds of forest animals in the distance, the scurrying of squirrels, the hooting of owls and the smell of freshly fallen snow.

He needed to say something, anything to break the heavy silence and end his prolonged suffering but Derek beat him to it. 

“Truth.”

Stiles hesitated, still reeling from the recklessness from before. He needed to proceed with more caution.

Like with Wizard’s Chess, he needed to make sure every move counted in his favour. He wasn't used to planning ahead, more of a haphazard chaos of unpredictability than he was a strategist who could weigh his losses and retreat when necessary. But with Derek, he had to learn how to balance the two.

If he pushed too hard then he would lose all the repertoire of pieces he'd accumulated, but if he didn't push hard enough then the game would forever be at an impasse.

He didn't want to put Derek on the spot, didn't want to ruin this moment. But he also didn’t want to let this opportunity pass by. 

There were a million things he wanted to ask Derek. From trivial things like his favourite colour, which was probably black by the way, to more serious ones. Why did Derek save him from Scott that night? And why didn’t he recognize Stiles after the Sorting Ceremony? What had happened to his family? The real story, not the one people read about in the prophet. And why had Derek followed him here, when he knew they were going to get lost?

He considered all of them carefully but finally gave up, instead he threw Derek’s question back at him.

 

“What is a secret you’ve never told anyone?”

Derek turned his head slowly to stare at him, before throwing his head back to bark out a laugh, clearly not expecting his response. Stiles grinned at his own cleverness, being able to make the older boy laugh was like scoring the winning goal at the Quidditch World Cup Finals.

The werewolf paused in thought, balancing his elbows on his knees and Stiles waited with bated breath.

“I can play the triangle.” Derek deadpanned.

"You mean the percussion instrument?” Stiles frowned in confusion before bursting out in laughter “Sorry to burst your bubble dude, but even a pygmy puff can play that thing.”

Then, the realization hits him. 

Derek never intended to tell the truth in the first place, he was just playing with him.

He laughed even louder. He kept laughing even as Derek pulled him closer, jamming a warm hand down the base of his neck and keeping it there.

He laughed so hard that he wanted to cry. He had thought, after four years of knowing him, that there was no longer anything Derek could do that would upset him. Not when he'd sprouted teeth and claws, nor the day when he had tried to kill Scott, nor the time he offered the bite to everyone but Stiles. It had surprised him yes, but it had also made sense.

The red strings in his mind's eye finally tying up all the loose ends. For he had forgotten, what with their recent closeness, that Derek never played fair.

Not even once.

It was always Stiles making the first move, it was always him laying his cards bare on the table for everyone to see, but Derek wouldn't ever show his hand.

He didn't know what game they were playing or what the rules were, but he was sure of one thing. Stiles had lost every round, and would keep on losing forever as long as the opponent sitting across from him was Derek Hale.

But he didn't mind it. That somehow, the absurdity of it made sense to him.

 

He could lose a hundred times over for Derek. As long as the game kept going, as long as the dice kept rolling in a never-ending reel of slot machines and pool tables.

 _What did it matter anyway, when all of this was just a game?_ He wondered, he hadn’t placed any bets, there was nothing he could lose, and therefore there was nothing to fear.

He would not allow himself to be afraid.

With this thought firmly in his mind, he rolled the die.

“That was cheating, Derek. You _cheated_.”

He licked the corners of his mouth, molting away at the exfoliated skin.

“You’re a _cheater_ , and now you have to pick my dare.” 

Derek scoffed, a smoky white breath escaping from his too thin lips, “Oh, is that so?”

As always, the older boy was humouring him. Always so indulgent with his whims and fancies, always the perfect gentleman.

And Stiles was sick of it.

“Afraid I’ve never heard of such a rule.” Derek crossed his arms.

“Yes it’s a rule, everyone knows this.” Stiles persisted, pressing one long finger gently into the base of Derek’s neck, heating up the cold tip with the divot of warmth just below the dark hairline. 

“You c _heated_ and this is the forfeit. Are you going to do it or not?”

He can’t wait for an answer. Can’t hesitate, or Derek will slip from his fingers again and Stiles doesn't have the strength to chase a ghost for eternity.

The urgency is tipping him overboard and waves of liquid fire spill over with vehemence, the coiled viper in his chest strained like a whip waiting to beat down on raw flesh as he leaned over in a fervent whisper. 

 

 _“I dare you to kiss me.”_  

 

The wind picked up again, snarling in the background and drowning out his voice.

Immediately the hand on his neck was gone. 

Stiles shrank back, sensing danger deep in his gut.

He tripped over his own legs as he crawled backwards, further inside into the foxhole.

His palms crushed on bits of broken bone and animal carcass and he yelped in disgust. The stench of fecal pellets was stronger here, plugging at his nose, yanking at his gag reflux and he wanted to puke at the offensive smell.

“It was a joke Derek, I was joking, calm down ok?” He amended hurriedly, “I— I didn't mean anything by it, I swear!"

"Please! Just calm down!”

 

They stared at each other.

 

Derek’s posture was eerily composed, betraying all the intense fury in his body that had sprouted out through his claws, bled from his dark mane.

He hadn’t moved at all, just craned his neck and glared vacantly back at him with one beady bloody eye.

Stiles trembled.

He had seen Derek like this a few times, once when he was punishing the betas and another time when Scott had left the pack and become an omega.

He never thought that one day, it would be directed towards him.

He was so sure that it was never something he had to be afraid of. Now he sees what a fool he's been.

“You… You think this is a joke?”" Derek’s voice was rough, almost unrecognizably animalistic in the hollow of the cavern, his elongated canines gnashed to spit the words out.

“If this was a joke..."

Stiles cowered away in fear, all his false bravado sizzled into silence and disappeared in a puff of smoke. Two red slits swiveled to face him and an alien voice purred in the darkness.

 

"Then I've been waiting for the punchline since four years ago, you fool.”

 

Then he pounced. 

 

The impact sent Stiles hurtling backwards and he fell. His head knocked harshly against the rough walls before landing on a mess of peeled animal fur and damp fern, the jagged edges of broken wooden splinters stabbing into his spine.

Claws clutched down on his shoulders, sharp nails digging into his collarbone, leaving angry red marks on the soft clavicle of his skin.

Stiles pushed back in panic but that only made things worse.

Derek growled sharply, a low warning at the back of his throat and he froze, forcing his body to go limp and scooting his arms back to his side.

But the growling only pitched louder, wetter and heavier at his ears. He arched his body, desperate to get up and slip away. But there was no space in the small burrow, and he knew it would only endanger his life further, so he bared his neck, stretching at an odd angle to the side.

He could feel Derek’s breath on his face, the very tips of his fangs dangerously close to his jugular. Then they moved up and thin lips rammed against his. 

They were kissing or at least Stiles thinks they were kissing, though it felt more like Derek was swallowing him whole, chewing him up piece by piece then spitting him out before doing it all over again.

His tongue pushed back to resist the onslaught but it cut on sharp incisors instead and he could taste the coppery liquid in his mouth before the pain can register in his brain. He arched up again, trying to scream but his voice was muffled, a rolling tongue dug deep into his throat, embedded in his uvula, effectively silencing him.

He dug his fingers into matted fur and pulled as hard as he could, hoping to leave a scratch, but it was futile, nothing he did could make a dent.

He thrashed some more, but Derek was gone. And in his place was the wolf in a black and white suit.

 

They broke apart for air but before he could inhale fully, those bruising lips were back again. An intrusive tongue pushed insistently into him,  a solid and sticky mess of phlegm in his mouth, his lips resisted the foreign intrusion and he panted heavily through his nose.

He clenched his teeth, determined to resist. But the wolf found a way in, as he always did.

Gentle claws stroked down his neck, a slight pressure just deep enough to break the skin and weave beautiful rosy ruches into his jugular.

He gasped in shock at the riveting pain, and the roving tongue slipped slyly through his teeth. Parting the soft slick flesh of his tonsils and thrusting with ecstatic convulsions at the unpermitted entry.

He screwed his eyes close in agony. 

A rough hand tugged down on his chest, tearing away at the buttons of his shirt.

His eyes flew open.

 

The wolf was a dark, sweaty, heaving mess above him.

 

There was a smell of dampness and decay all around him, tufts of feathers and furs escaped from the nest and lolled up his nose. He wanted to sneeze, to squeeze himself tight and curl into a ball. But the wolf was there, cracking him open, forcing around the tight flesh of his tongue, pummeling into the back of his head. 

He thrashed again, limbs pinned to the floor by an immovable force.

The long tongue released its hold on his lips and lapped further down.

“ _No,”_ he whispered desperately, but no one would be able to hear him for miles and miles.

His lips now free, began to quiver like a balloon that had just been popped, leaving behind a sticky wrinkled bag flittering about in the wind.

 _“Derek. No.”_ He tried again, his voice cracking with the effort.

Steel nails were tugging down at his waist, but he’s too afraid to look down. He felt a pressure dipping between his legs, something firm and slimy was searching for another opening.

 _“No.”_ He shook his head, throwing his neck back in pain.

All he can see is the faint shadow of a wolf’s haunches jerking to and fro violently from across the walls of the cavern.

_“Derek, please come back.”_

Blood red eyes flashed up at him and the wolf licked his lips in hunger.

Savouring his blood on its tongue, its ravaging claws pulled tenderly at his torso, snipping soft satin ribbons from the material of his pants. The mauve fabric split open like a watermelon, dripping juices from between this thighs and down to his knees, leaving deep magenta veins at the surface of his pale skin like the colour of sour plums, the shade of fresh bruises.

Something sparks in his movements, something akin to hesitation then, like a switch that was flipped, the red light of his eyes flickered.

But it refused to die out.

 

_“Derek, please.”_

 

There’s a trip of electricity, the kind that occurs just before a power outage. Recognition shines in Derek’s eyes slowly, then all at once, like a building that had its emergency energy supply restored after a long blackout.

Then, with one final spasmic jolt of the lever, it was all over.

Grey-green-blue eyes shimmered down at him.

He was back. Derek was back.

But as quickly as he came, he was gone.

Stiles called out to him but the werewolf was already darting off on all fours and racing speedily away from the foxhole. He delved silently into the cover of darkness before disappearing completely into the raging blizzard. 

 

He had left Stiles alone to fend for himself, lost and afraid in the bitter frost of the Forbidden Forest. 

Outside, the wind howled ferociously, blowing in all directions though it had nowhere to go. And so it howled even louder, searching for an outlet. 

High above, the moon turned away in shame, veiled by thick tresses of ash grey clouds and a torrent of glaciers that fell from the sky like icicle tears down a mother’s face.

It was midnight, the spell was broken.

 

Stiles listened to the baying of wolves in the distance and then fainted into a deep sleep.

 


End file.
